Unkindness
by johnsarmylady
Summary: John was keen to know more about the man he had moved in with two months ago, because there was something about Sherlock that evaded him. When he found out exactly what it was, he promised to do everything in his power to help. A friends-to-lovers AU/Modern Gothic.
1. A Strange Turn of Events

They had been flatmates for little more than two months, yet still John Watson had the distinct impression that he was missing something important.

Sherlock Holmes, scientist, self-proclaimed Consulting Detective and self-confessed sociopath was an enigma. Like a will o' the wisp he would flit around crime scenes, seeing far more than anyone else, his abrasive tones as he spewed forth his deductions creating an almost physical barrier between himself and all others. But surprisingly, he had let John into his life.

Originally, he had been looking for someone to share the cost of the rooms in Baker Street, and John had needed cheap accommodation, mainly due to the fact that the run down block of flats he was currently staying in were due to be demolished, they had been cheap because they had been in an appalling condition, but they were fast becoming dangerously unstable.

John smiled a little at that – dangerously unstable could easily describe his new friend, only the blond ex-army doctor didn't find him so. Instead he relished the excitement and adventure as they chased through London, from its brightly exotic heart to its depressingly dark and fetid underbelly, no area was off limits.

The object of his musings was currently stalking the corridors of St Bart's hospital, trying to prove his latest theory on some poor unsuspecting dead body, while flattering pathologist Molly Hooper into letting him use the mortuary equipment and laboratories. He would be gone for some time, giving John the perfect opportunity to try to solve this puzzle.

Taking a deep breath and straightening his shoulders as if preparing to face a firing squad, John approached Sherlock's bedroom door. This was the one room in the flat that he had never entered – in truth he'd not even so much as poked his head round the door.

Now, with his fingers curled around the door handle, he hesitated, good manners warring with curiosity. Part of him wanted him to outright ask his flatmate if there was anything else he should know, but part of him acknowledged that if he did, and Sherlock lied, then he would have given him a beacon-clear warning to be on his guard. No, this was the only way.

The room itself was surprisingly tidy, considering Sherlock's habit of dropping things wherever he happened to be standing when he finished with them and leaving them there. Here one could forgive the higgledy piggledy pile of books on a chair beside the bed – mostly scientific tomes, but there were a few theological texts, which surprised John, but only because the detective was so firmly grounded in logic and had more than once denied any kind of religious belief.

With a mental shrug he moved on to the half open wardrobe. He could see rows of designer suits and shirts; peering around the closed half of the door he found shelves with cashmere jumpers and racks with highly polished shoes. None of this was unexpected, and John was beginning to feel a little foolish. Maybe there was nothing more to know, nothing hidden, but as he turned to leave a box, tumbled beside the bedside table as if knocked off when turning out the lamp, caught his eye.

It was incongruous, and as he squatted down to take a close look John realised it was quite the last thing he would have expected to find in any room in this house, but most especially this one. It was a box of intense black hair dye.

xXx

Closing the bedroom door behind him softly, John stood in the hallway thinking. In every way his friend's room was exactly what he expected it to be, if only he hadn't found that dye. Slowly his feet carried him towards the kitchen, and out of rapidly developing habit he filled the kettle and switched it on.

It was as he reached up into the cupboard for a clean cup that he heard the door open, and the soft steady tread of his flatmate's brother

"Don't you ever knock, Mycroft?" He asked, not turning around but grabbing another cup, and making his unwanted visitor a cup of tea.

"Until you moved in there was never a need"

The cultured tones grated on John's nerves, and he handed Mycroft his cup with a grudging nod towards Sherlock's vacant chair.

"I beg to differ. Your brother's a grown man, not a child that you need to keep checking up on." He lowered himself carefully into his own chair. "So what have I done to warrant your visit?"

"Oh, I just want to see how you are settling in, make sure everything is… okay?"

"Okay? Hardly a word I expect you to use Mycroft, too _pedestrian_ for someone who moves in such exalted circles as you do."

"Sarcasm ill becomes you, Doctor."

"Lying ill becomes you, Mycroft." John replied softly, but there was steel in his voice.

For a long moment the two men stared at each other, Mycroft calculating, John calm and unreadable.

"My brother has tried and failed to co-exist with others since he was sent to Harrow at the age of thirteen, and apart from the boys he had no option but to share a dormitory with, he has succeeded in driving everyone away within days." The elder Holmes studied his nails dispassionately before adding "The record is a fortnight, and that was only because for the first few days the new flatmate was actually abroad at a conference."

"And your point is?"

"What's in it for you, Doctor Watson?" Cold pale blue eyes glared, trying to intimidate and supress.

John smiled.

"Honestly? A roof over my head, a landlady that fusses over us, and…" he paused and stood up, looking coolly down at the older man. "It winds you up which makes Sherlock happy, and a happy Sherlock is less likely to blow the kitchen up. You've outstayed your welcome Mycroft, see yourself out, and I'll thank you to remember your manners and knock next time you want to come in."

With that he moved back to the kitchen and started preparing food. The slamming of the door made him chuckle to himself, Mycroft baiting could be fun, although he wasn't foolish enough to believe that the British Government would leave it at that – he expected retribution.

For now though, he wasn't going to let it bother him, for now he had other things to think about.

xXx

Sherlock's sharp eyes scanned the room as he hung his coat on the back of the living room door.

"What did he want?"

John looked up from stoking the fire; by now quite used to the way his flatmate knew whenever his interfering brother had been in the flat.

"He wanted to see how I'm settling in." Standing up he dusted his hands off, resting them on his hips and looking meditatively into the fire. "He doesn't seem happy that I'm here Sherlock, told me all about my predecessors, and how quickly they moved on."

"And?"

"And what?" John spun round to see Sherlock's bright gaze fixed unwaveringly on his face. "You think I'm bothered by that? I was a soldier Sherlock, takes more than a few well-chosen snide comments to deter me from doing what I want to do."

"You sent him away with a flea in his ear!" The younger man announced with a grin.

"Yeah, and with a recommendation to allow you the courtesy of knocking before strolling in." His grin wasn't as bright as Sherlock's. "I doubt he enjoyed the encounter, and I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't find some way to retaliate."

"And he calls me childish."

"Hungry?"

"No."

"Good, I've made vegetable biryani." John walked through to the kitchen. "And I've removed the mess your last experiment made on this table so we can sit out here and eat."

"But I said…." Sherlock took a step towards the kitchen and immediately his senses were assaulted by the heavenly smell of baked spiced rice and vegetable. His mouth started to water and his stomach grumbled.

John laughed, and dished out two generous platefuls.

xXx

Sherlock had retreated to his room after dinner, claiming a need for quiet while he filed the results of today's experiments into their respective places in his mind palace. John heard the key turn in the lock – well, that was nothing unusual, his flatmate often took the precaution of ensuring he was undisturbed while he thought.

After a quite check of the papers he noted there was a half decent film due to start soon, and the idea of getting in some beers to have while he watched it appealed. Pulling on his jacket he wandered down towards Sherlock's door.

"I'm popping out to the offy – do you want anything?" he asked through the closed door, but there was no response from inside the room, so he turned away and headed out of the door.

Baker Street was dark and almost deserted, unsurprising in the harsh winter winds. John turned his collar up and hunched his shoulders, stepping up his pace as he turned into the side street.

Passing a narrow alleyway between two houses a hand suddenly shot out and dragged him in, unbalancing him and flinging against a wall.

Even as the air whooshed out of his lungs his took in the situation he now found himself in – in a dark unlit alley with, judging by the shadows, at least three assailants. Army training and natural; self-preservation skills kicked in, and he launched himself at the nearest thug, taking him down with the force of his surprise attack.

The second shadow was larger, and better placed than his colleague, grasping John by the back of his jacket and heaving him off the other man, grabbing him in a bear hug and pounding his ribs with a meaty fist.

Behind John the third man withdrew a sharp blade from his pocket, holding it aloft as he approached the ex-soldier's unprotected back.

From above them came a hoarse throaty cry, and a large dark bird flew down, swooping round and clawing with large talons at the attackers face. The attacker waved his hands, slicing upwards with the knife, John's exposed back momentarily forgotten as the bird attacked time and again, pushing him further into the darkness.

Tuning out the shrieks behind him John pulled on every ounce of his training, trading blow for blow with his opponent until landing the larger man a swift left upper-cut, knocking him senseless.

Not wasting time to draw breath he turned around to confront the third man before his adrenaline crashed. Moving towards him John was just in time to see an unlucky slash of the knife catch the bird's leg, momentarily destabilising its flight. With another hoarse screech it flew upwards, blood dripping down on the dark shadowed alley.

His first mistake was to watch the flight of the injured bird. His second was to underestimate Captain John H Watson.

Making use of the man's momentary distraction John closed the distance between them, grabbing the man's wrist and with a single vicious twist breaking it, the clatter of the knife hitting the ground drowned out by the howl of pain, then two hard and fast punches to the solar plexus put the man down and out.

Bending down to retrieve the knife, John abandoned all thoughts of beer and films – he just wanted to get home and shower off the filth from the alleyway.

Backtracking the way he came, it took less than ten minutes to get back to the flat. Cold and tired, he slowly climbed the stairs, letting himself quietly into the flat.

Following the sound of running water, he made his way to the bathroom, intent on asking if Sherlock was likely to be in there long, but his flatmate had left the door open, and was standing in just his underpants and shirt, the flannel in his hand turning an ominous red as he bathed a ragged cut on his leg.

And all the while he was muttering.

"If only he didn't make me eat, it makes me sluggish…"

John pushed the door fully open, and it banged against the side of the bath making Sherlock drop the cloth and spin around.

"You?" John gasped numbly as realisation hit. "You were the raven?"

**A/N: An offy is slang for an Off-License (Liquor store)**


	2. The Other London Life

There was a wariness in Sherlock's eyes as he met John's stunned stare. Several scenarios flashed through his mind – he could deny it all and blame his injury on carelessness, or he could say an intruder broke in, but the look in the other man's eyes stopped him, because that look was neither fear nor condemnation – it was curiosity and wonder.

He drew in a deep breath, preparing to explain, however John stepped into the bathroom, crowding his space and looking up at him in concern.

"Look it doesn't matter." He said hurriedly. "None of it matters, except that wound on your leg."

"It's not serious…"

"Let me be the judge of that seeing as how, of the two of us, I'm the one with the medical degree." Slipping past his astonished flatmate he pulled the plug in the sink, letting the blood-stained water run away before turning on the taps to rinse the basin and run fresh clean water. "Go lay on the couch, I'll just get the filth from the alleyway out of my hands and have a look at that for you."

Watching for a moment as John turned his back and started to scrub vigorously at his hands, Sherlock quietly turned and limped out of the room.

By the time John had scrubbed up and collected his medical kit from his room, Sherlock was lying on his side, propped up on one elbow and poking at the cut which was still sluggishly bleeding with his free hand.

"Hey, stop that." John chided as he pulled the coffee table close to the couch and sat on in, pulling various items from the army rucksack he had placed next to him.

"It's almost healed." The younger man said sulkily. John raised an eyebrow and looked at him. "Well, it's almost stopped bleeding." He amended.

"That's because you're laying down you berk."

Sherlock huffed and asked "What will you do?"

John peered down at the injury, wiping it gently with an antiseptic swab.

"Well, it's jagged but not too deep, so I'll just pull it together with some steristrips – are your tetanus jabs up to date?" He worked quickly as he spoke, with an ease and confidence that only came with practice.

"About six years ago, before…."

Blue eyes flicked up to meet silver grey, reading apprehension behind the bravado. Placing a hand on his friends arm, John gave a light squeeze and an encouraging smile.

"Okay, that should still be good for a few years yet." He said.

With a few more strips of the sterile tape the wound was closed, and John sat up on the coffee table and stretched his back.

"How did you know?"

Sherlock frowned and gave John an odd look, thrown by the question.

"That I was being attacked?"

"Oh…._oh_! I followed you."

"Why?"

"I was bored. Nothing much else to do when you're sitting on the roof." He said it in such a blasé way that John's head shot up, and as they looked at each other they dissolved into giggles.

"Bloody hell Sherlock," John wiped tears of laughter from his cheeks and gasped for breath. "I'm never sure what you're going to bloody well say next, you git!"

"But it's true!" Sherlock tried to control his grin. "There is rarely anything worth seeing up there most nights, so I thought I'd come along and see what you were up to."

"Great – I have to watch my back against sneaky birds now…"

"Well just remember, this sneaky bird prevented you ending up with a knife in your back."

The smile faded from John face and he looked at his friend with affection.

"Yeah, thanks for that, I owe you one." He started to rise from the table but was restrained by the light grasp of Sherlock's hand on his wrist. He glanced down, and then back, questioningly, into Sherlock's face.

"And I owe you an explanation." The younger man said quietly.

"No, you owe me nothing." John said solemnly, then after moment added cheekily "But you could have introduced me to your alter ego when I first moved in!"

Sherlock slumped back against the cushions, careless of his state of undress, and stared up at the ceiling, seeing not the whitewashed plaster but another room, in another time.

"I know you think you know London John, and as much as any average human being is capable of doing so, you do. You know London life, you see more that most of what it takes to live here, but there is another – a darker London – one that hides itself from the general populace."

John leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, listening intently.

"About four years ago I discovered that I didn't know London as well as I thought I did. I was on the trail of a particularly vicious psychopath called Moriarty, Jim Moriarty. I had persuaded him to meet me."

Closing his eyes Sherlock called forth from his Mind Palace a replay of that day, and in a soft voice recounted a meeting with the criminal mastermind in municipal swimming pool, the one where, as a teenager, Moriarty had committed his first crime, testing out his powers.

Watching his friend, John had a million questions already running around his head, like who was this Moriarty? Why had he never heard of him if, as he was fairly sure had happened, Sherlock had put a stop to his shenanigans? But he held his tongue and waited, there would be time enough for questions.

Continuing his story, Sherlock spoke of what started out as a fairly ordinary meeting, Moriarty jeered and taunted him, trying to make him lose his self-control. He had misjudged his target there Sherlock related proudly, if years of being baited by Mycroft hadn't broken his control, then this twisted little Irishman didn't stand a chance. Sherlock was soon to learn how wrong he had been, and how badly he had underestimated his opponent.

"What happened?" John spoke into the lengthening silence.

Silver eyes flickered open and focussed on the concerned blue eyes watching him.

"I tried to leave, I realised he had no intention of giving himself up so I decided I'd had enough of his puerile wit. I turned around and started walking but…." he frowned, "the next thing I knew I was flying through the air."

"Someone attacked you?"

"Moriarty attacked me. He lifted me in the air and flew me around the room, then set me spinning like a top until I was certain I was going to be violently sick."

"How?" John sounded incredulous. "I mean, that kind of power…."

"Is rare." Sherlock said, sitting up and threading his long fingers through his hair, ruffling it hard and scratching at his scalp.

"Stop that Sherlock." Placing gentle hands on top of Sherlock's he stilled the movement. "If it worries you this much, you don't have to tell me any more of this, it doesn't matter, really."

"Of course it matters!" Sherlock wrenched away, pulling himself off the couch and stalking around the room. "I had no right to let you move in here without telling you – warning you – about….about….."

"No Sherlock, no. This isn't going to happen, I'm not going to let you get wound up about something that is none of your fault."

"But I should have _known_."

John stood up and planted himself firmly in front of the agitated young man, grasping him firmly by the arms and making him stand still. Sherlock looked at him, a stubborn set to his chin, but John just laughed.

"If you think that grumpy look is going to stop me you've got another think coming mate." He pushed, moving the other man towards his chair. "Though if I were you I'd give in before being pushed into that chair hurts your leg."

"You wouldn't."

"No," John admitted. "No I wouldn't hurt you – in any way – and you need to understand that."

Letting go of Sherlocks arms he turned and walked out to the kitchen, putting the kettle on and pulling mugs out of the cupboard before moving to lean in the doorway.

Sherlock had eased himself into the leather armchair, and was staring into empty grate, tension in every line of his slender body.

"Look mate, I meant it you know, you don't have to tell me any more if you don't want to, I won't think any less of you." He paused. "Look at me 'Lock…"

"What did you call me?"

"'Lock. Do you mind?" Returning to the kettle he made the tea and carried it through, handing one to his friend before settling into his own chair.

"Why?"

"Because Sherlock's a bit of a mouthful, and I thought you'd prefer that to Sherly…"

That caused Sherlock's head to turn and look at him.

"And now I have your attention, I'll say this just once more, You don't have to tell me, you needn't put yourself through relating what is obviously a painful memory, but whatever you tell me stays between us."

"I know that John, it's just…I suddenly realised that I have no right to drag you into this…this madness, this other London life."

"Bit late for that. I chase you around the street of this London most nights, do I look like it bothers me? You said dangerous – and here I am."

"Moriarty is …. he's more than just a criminal, more than just a man."

"He'd have to be to set you spinning round a room."

"He calls himself a Magister, a Grand Master of the Black Arts. When he eventually dropped me down he told me this was what he was, and that I had two choices – to join him, or to regret it." Sherlock drew a shaky breath "I told him that nothing would entice me to join him, no threat nor offer would change that fact. He smiled and uttered a string of weird sounds – words maybe, I don't know – and then he walked away, leaving me staring after him."

Cupping his hands around his mug he stared into the warm brown liquid.

"Two nights later I started to feel strange."

"Strange how?"

"Hot, uncomfortable. I couldn't bear to have my clothes on, but even with them off I still didn't feel right."

"And then what?"

"I think I blacked out, but I don't actually know. The next thing I remember was trying to fly through the locked window, I was hitting it, beating at it with…with my wings." He shook his head. "Mrs Hudson very kindly came in when she heard the noise, shrieked a couple of times and opened the window for me."

A smile quirked at John's lips.

"I bet she didn't leave it open for you though, did she?"

For the first time since starting his story a genuine smile lit Sherlock's face.

"No. I found myself naked on the roof in the early hours of the following morning. Fortunately for me my bedroom window, while always closed is rarely locked, so I shimmied bare-arsed down the drainpipe – I believe there's still some of the skin off my knees and toes in the brickwork – and forcing my way into my room."

John lost it. He bit his fist trying not to let the chuckles escape but it was no good. With a snort he flopped back in his chair laughing, and after a moment Sherlock joined in.

"Oh I'd have given good money to see that!" The doctor gasped between fits of laughter.

"Don't even think of locking the windows against me." Trying to sound stern and threatening was difficult when giggling, but Sherlock tried nonetheless.

"Oh, don't think I hadn't thought of it mate – the next time you plant a severed head next to my pasta salad!"

"I received a text from him." Sherlock said when they had calmed down. "Telling me that I would transform randomly, that I wouldn't be able to work because I would never be sure of when I'd change again. So I stayed at home until I could recognise the signs of the change, and the timings."

"But this – it doesn't happen…"

"Yes, it happens regularly, only now I know how to control it. It took me nearly two years, but I learned that I could control it if I forced a transformation on _my_ terms, when _I_ wanted. By doing that the uncontrolled transformations became fewer and farther between, and as long as I don't go for more than a week I know my secret is safe."

John stared at his friend, turning over in his mind the information he had just been given, and Sherlock waited.

"There must be a way to reverse this curse." John said finally.

"There are, it seems, quite a few 'practitioners', but they are known or loyal to Moriarty, they won't help."

"I'll help."

"John, this isn't some illness that you can research a cure for. I've lived with this for four years, I've learned to accept what I am." He laughed, a sharp, bitter laugh. "When Donovan calls me freak she has no idea how close she is to the truth."

"Sherlock, you aren't the only one here who can keep secrets y'know." Seeing that he had caught his friend's attention the older man continued with a smile "You see, I'm not just a doctor, not just a soldier. The family I was born into was part of that 'other London' you talk about – I'm an alchemist."


	3. A Lack of Understanding

Sherlock's brain raced.

John? Ordinary, Dr John Watson, his flatmate, and he was….

"Whoa! Sherlock, whatever it is you're thinking, stop!" John held up his hands, leaning forward to make eye contact with his suddenly wary flatmate. "I am not one of this Moriarty's puppets, I'd never heard of him until today."

"So you say." Sherlock's eyes darkened to stormy grey. "Why didn't you tell me? This isn't some harmless secret you've been harbouring…."

John leapt to his feet, circling round to stand behind his chair, holding the back of it in a death-grip, his knuckles white and tension in every line of his body.

"For fuck's sake Sherlock, can you hear yourself? You said yourself that this 'other London' as you like to call it is hidden – I know it's hidden; I've lived there, but like you I had no idea I was sharing a flat with someone who had knowledge of its existence."

Cuffing a hand through his hair the smaller man suddenly let his muscles go lax, and he rested his forearms on the back of the chair, meshing his fingers together as he stared blindly as his hands. Part of him wanted the genius sitting staring suspiciously at him to realise the logic of what he had just said, but those accusing eyes seemed to bore a hole through him, and suddenly he snapped at the injustice of it all.

"Tell you what," He said, mostly to himself. "I need some air." And with that he flung himself out of the living room, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door, yelling back over his shoulder "And don't bloody follow me!"

xXx

The front door slammed shut, leaving Sherlock alone with his churning thoughts. Had John told him not to follow because he wanted time to himself, or was there something more sinister? What if he was heading back to Moriarty, to tell him that his victim had learned to control the curse?

Like his worst nightmare coming back, he could feel the burning heat returning, stripping the years away and dragging him back to the early days of his affliction.

Staggering through to his room he peeled off his shirt and underpants, clutching at his hair as the familiar feeling of being uncomfortable in his own skin pulsed through him, and with shaking hands he opened his bedroom window, knowing he had only minutes before….

His eyes rolled back in his head and he keeled over, but before his body could hit the floor a piercing shriek had ripped itself from his unconscious throat and time seemed to slow down.

Had John still been in the flat he would have wondered at the heat emanating from his flatmate's bedroom, and had he investigated the source of that heat he would have seen the swirling waves of hot shimmering air surrounding the twisting shape – half human half raven – as it spun from one plane of life to the other, finally landing on the bed, its beak clacking his 'tock tock' call as it stretched its wings.

The raven Sherlock didn't stay long in the room, in two short hops he was on the window ledge, then with a final 'tock tock' he was off out of the window, stretching his wings and flying above the Baker Street rooftops, barely clinging to his human, logical brain as he swooped and soared into the London night.

xXx

John stormed across Regents Park, his eyes constantly flicking towards the sky knowing that if he kept to the treeline Sherlock, should he choose to follow him, would have to come out into the open. He knew too that if Sherlock followed him the pain of that level of mistrust would surely shatter him.

Reaching the cover of the bandstand in Queen Mary's Garden he sprawled on his back on the wooden seat inside, his eyes screwed up as if to prevent the march of memories flickering across their lids like an old sepia movie.

_He had been ten when he presented as something more than just another average kid. His mother had known immediately what was happening, and keeping him from school one morning she had waited until Harry and their father had both gone about their daily business before bundling him into his warmest coat and leaving the house._

'_John, you mustn't tell anyone about this trip,' she had said 'You mustn't tell your dad or Harry."_

'_Why mum? Where we going?'_

'_To see your Gran, my mum.'_

_John's youthful, trusting face had creased in a confused frown._

'_Dad said I didn't have any grandparents.'_

_Mum had smiled then, but it was a sad smile that never quite reached her eyes._

'_Your dad never liked my parents, John. My dad died years ago, but my mum is still alive. You and Harry have met her before, but you were both babies so you wouldn't remember her.'_

_The trip had been the first of many. What his mother had seen, that he like she was a natural healer, was just the tip of the iceberg. Young John had also shown a natural aptitude for manipulation, not people but things, and his grandmother introduced him to one of the country's few remaining alchemists, Ulmay Gabrail._

_Covering the visits by telling Dad and Harry that John had joined a rugby team, his mother had taken him every Saturday to study at the feet of the master. Gabrail had encouraged the young man to explore every facet of change, tying it where he could to the boy's healing abilities, pushing him to become something more than just a healer, better than just an alchemist….._

Dragging himself back to the present John realised he was cold, and his back was complaining at the unforgiving bench below him while his shoulder ached with a mixture of cold and tension. He swung his feet down and hunched over, his elbows resting on his thighs, his head in his hands.

_Voices in his mind whispered; a conversation from long ago._

"_What is it that makes you cry so Johnny?"_

"_It's me dad, he hates me."_

"_Oh? Hate's a strong word Johnny, he just doesn't understand and that makes him scared."_

"_But Gran, he beats me, and he watches while Harry's nasty to me and he don't stop her…."_

"_Shhh, John. He'll understand, in time."_

With a shake of his head he shut the voices up, his gran, his youthful self, the memories of distrust and fear too painful, and taking a deep breath he straightened up, determined to face his flatmate and put the record straight.

The decision made he crossed the park, taking the most direct route back, and within ten minutes he was letting himself back into the Baker Street flat.

"Sherlock?" he called as he hung up his jacket. "Sherlock?"

Taking in the empty living room he detoured through the kitchen, his heart sinking with every step he took towards the blast of cold air he could feel rushing out from under his flatmate's bedroom door, and he stood in the hallway, knowing what he would find if he opened the door yet unable to stop himself.

The clothing lying on the floor and the open window told their own story – Sherlock had transformed and followed him out.

xXx

Sherlock didn't recall returning to his room, like a homing pigeon he found his way back to his open window and now he was lying, naked and shivering, in the dawn light.

It had been the first time in two years that he'd changed involuntarily, and he felt vaguely sick and disoriented.

Struggling into his pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt, Sherlock pulled his red silk robe on and walked out into the flat, his stomach churning in panic as he took in the emptiness, the tidiness where previously there had been dirty cups, and after a moment's hesitation he hurried up the stairs to John's room.

It was empty.

The bed showed no signs of being slept in, but then the room showed no sign of its occupant packing up and leaving.

Were it not for the tidiness downstairs he might have persuaded himself that John had chosen to stay with one of his old girlfriends instead of returning home last night, but he knew deep down that John had come back, had realised that the flat was empty, and after mulling it over while he washed up had probably decided that he'd been followed, spied upon, and left.

Slowly Sherlock retraced his steps, one long fingered hand massaging his temples. It was a mess, a bloody awful mess, and he wanted nothing more than to turn back the clock.

Slumping down onto the couch he winced as he stretched out his injured leg, pressing his fingers together under his chin he stared up at the ceiling, allowing his mind to replay the evening, finally admitting to himself that he would have given anything to go back to the moment of John's revelation.

'_Stupid, stupid_!' he hissed to himself, as their conversation replayed in his head. '_Why would he tell you he's an alchemist if he worked for Moriarty?_ _He'd just go and report to him….'_

With a groan he rolled over, pummelling the cushion under his head as he stared at the back of the couch, willing his flatmate to return soon.

His wish wasn't granted. Instead the measured tread of Mycroft ascending the stairs had him rolling his eyes in frustration, but just as he prepared to snark at his elder brother there was a knock at the door.

Lifting his head he stared suspiciously at the closed panelled wood. He heard the metal ferrule of an umbrella tapping on the top step, before it was hefted up to tap once more on the door.

With a slow glide Sherlock crossed to the door and opened it, staring haughtily down his nose at Mycroft, smirking at the fact that he was forced to stand on a lower step, giving the British Government a decided disadvantage.

"Your…ah….flatmate has asked me to knock." A hint of red brushed across the older man's cheeks, highlighting the red tints in his auburn hair.

"I'm glad to see you took notice."

"But that doesn't mean I'm happy to stand on the doorstep." With a sneer Mycroft stepped through the door, brushing past his younger brother and looking inquisitively around the flat. "He's not here then, your….friend?"

"I assume you already knew that, hence you're here."

"He was seen leaving here twice last night – once to take a stroll in Regents Park…..Did you have an argument?" When no answer was forthcoming, he leaned on his umbrella and smiled smugly. "I'll take that as an affirmative. I'll also assume that, having returned little more than an hour later you still couldn't settle your differences so he's gone."

"Yes, I heard how you'd told him exactly how long his predecessors stayed, thank you for that Mycroft. What did you hope to achieve?" Sherlock threw himself back onto the couch, stretching out indolently.

Mycroft took the leather armchair, sitting back, clearly at ease, and looked across at the pale, petulant face surrounded by curls.

"I merely thought he should know the truth."

"You merely thought you'd stir things up!"

"Looking out for you, brother dear. He seemed far too good to be true, and that usually means actually too good to be true."

"What, because he's my friend?"

"You don't have friends Sherlock; you never did manage that particular social convention."

"Well there's a first time for everything." John's voice from the doorway was soft and sounded tired. "I do hope you remembered your manners this time Mycroft."

Sherlock was on his feet and looking at the small blond man, trying to read his almost unreadable expression. Blue eyes stared right back at him, and they seemed to be telling him to say nothing, an impression that was reinforced as John wandered through to the kitchen.

"Tea?"

"Please." Sherlock turned and smirked at his brother.

"Mycroft?"

"No, thank you John, I shan't be staying." He stood, pulling gently at his waistcoat and straightening his jacket. "I'm sure you want privacy to resolve your…..differences."

John switched the kettle on and slowly turned away from it, his eyes cold and hard as he looked at his flatmate's brother.

"One day Mycroft, you will cut yourself on that sharp tongue of yours." His hands clenched into fists, the only outward sign of tension ripping through him. "We aren't warring countries, or recalcitrant politicians to be prodded back into line by your heavy-handed tactics. We are normal human beings, with normal human reactions, and it may come as something of a surprise to you, but your brother and I can manage to share a flat without constantly falling out."

Sherlock had to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing at the expression on his brother's face; instead he busied himself opening the front door.

"Goodbye Mycroft, don't feel free to call anytime."

Nodding to John, Mycroft made as dignified an exit as was possible given the circumstances, keeping his head held high.

Closing the door with a flourish Sherlock fairly bounced back into the living room, a wide grin on his face that faded rapidly as he found himself facing a stern looking Captain Watson.

Handing the younger man his cup of tea John turned his back, crossing to the window and leaning against the wall to look out at the world as it passed their door.

"You followed me." He said dully, and echo of the pain of distrust in his voice, the façade he had put up for Mycroft's benefit now crumbled under the weight of his distress. "I asked you not to, but still you flew."

"No!" Frozen in the middle of the room Sherlock reached out, not really knowing what he reached for, desperation flooding his voice. "I….. it was…. I couldn't stop it, it just happened! Please John you've got to believe me!"

"Got to?" John remained as he was, staring out of the window. "Believe you as you trusted me?"

Staring at the rigid lines of John's back Sherlock made an admission that he never thought he would ever have to give voice to.

"I was wrong."


	4. A Thought, A Plan, A Beginning

**I apologise for the tardiness of this chapter - the boys were just not talking to me.**

Sherlock remained where he was frozen in the middle of the room, watching for any sign that John had even heard his admission.

For his part John was attempting to see things from his friend's perspective – from a position of not being able to trust anyone to being expected to not only trust, but to accept that not every person with so-called magical ability would use it to harm or to gain something for their own selfish benefit. He heard the words, and after a few moments collecting his thoughts he turned.

"Maybe." He said, taking in Sherlock's outstretched hand and penitent expression. "Sherlock I understand all about self-preservation, but of all people you should have seen the logic of why I told you what I am."

"I do John… I did….it just took me a while." The dark curly head hung and the voice grew softer. "I was afraid."

John ran a trembling hand over his face, and then swallowed down the remains of his tea.

"I need to sleep." He said, looking sharply at his flatmate. "And so do you – even a couple of hours will help rebuild your reserves."

As the doctor made his way out to put his empty mug in the sink Sherlock followed him with his eyes.

"What do you intend to do?" he asked.

John didn't pretend to misunderstand him.

Nothing. At least, nothing more than I have already offered." He replied. "I want to help, if you will let me, but before I can you have to learn to trust me."

Not waiting for a response he slowly climbed the stairs to his room, forcing his tired mind to let go for a while.

Still standing in the middle of the room Sherlock listened to the sound of John's receding footsteps, his thoughts whirling. That the man was still willing to help him both surprised and comforted him – maybe there was still a chance he hadn't completely ruined their friendship.

xXx

John lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. The revelations of last night – and the memories that they invoked – drove away his much needed sleep.

Every time he closed his eyes his unusual childhood flickered like an old movie on his eyelids…

"_You may be fortunate enough never to see the dark heart of our underworld, or meet its inhabitants, the Mages who use our good arts for bad, but you must be prepared my son, for ideal worlds rarely exist."_

"_How will I know if I meet one Master Gabrail?"_

_The master alchemist smiled. "They will not be easy to see, their evil ways do not shine like a beacon obvious to all, but if you watch carefully you will see how their deeds give them away."_

"_But I'm afraid to watch them Master, what if they see me?"_

"_I shall teach you how to protect yourself, but you must take care to follow my instructions to the letter."_

"_I will Master." Wide eyed the twelve year old apprentice sat at the feet of this renowned alchemist and absorbed his teachings like a sponge._

With a groan John rolled over, trying to still his racing thoughts, wishing he could relax and rest.

Downstairs Sherlock also lay on his bed, but he made no effort at sleeping. Instead he tried to bring to mind everything he had ever read about alchemy, and realised he had deleted it as a waste of space. He huffed, irritated with himself for not having the required information at his fingertips, and flipped over to bury his head in his pillow.

xXx

Giving up on the hope of getting any rest, John dragged on his dressing gown and wearily descended to the kitchen.

Switching on the kettle he next checked the microwave for anything resembling human body parts before giving it a cursory wipe out and making himself a bowl of porridge, carrying both food and tea to the living room where he sat down to consider his options.

Feeling warmed through by the hot food, John started a mental inventory of the house, and by the time he had finished his drink he was ready to construct a full and hopefully fool-proof plan to make 221B Baker Street a safe haven for his friend – all he needed now was aforementioned friend's trust and cooperation.

Pushing himself up out of his chair John scooped up his breakfast things, and turned towards the kitchen. Sherlock was standing in the doorway.

"John?" The younger man looked singularly lost, tired and vulnerable. "You didn't sleep."

"Too much on my mind." John stopped and sighed. "Look, we can fight this Sherlock, and maybe we can win but to do it we need to work together."

"I want that – I want to try."

John nodded, "That's good then, isn't it?"

xXx

Three hours later Sherlock was lying on the couch, his eyes on the front door, waiting.

John had suddenly come to a decision and, grabbing his jacket, he had hurried from the flat promising to be back as soon as possible.

So Sherlock lay there, listening to the rain and Mrs Hudson's off key singing as she worked around the house, and he waited.

He stared until his eyes were dry and beginning to feel sore; and he chewed his bottom lip as the minutes ticked past, until he was wound up like a watch spring.

Footsteps running up the stairs catapulted him to his feet before his brain caught up with his senses, and he recognised the distinctive step of his visitor.

"What is it now Lestrade?" he turned his back as the front door opened.

"Body in a cellar in Battersea – if you're interested that is."

"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock asked petulantly, twisting round to frown at the Detective Inspector.

"Have you looked in the mirror lately mate? I don't think I've ever seen you looking so miserable."

Sherlock paused in the act of pulling on his Belstaff.

"What do you mean, miserable?"

Greg spluttered and choked on a laugh, waving a hand at the younger man's face, but Sherlock was already turning away.

"Text me the address, I'll be there as soon as I can get hold of John."

"He's not here?" Greg consulted his watch. "Working?"

"Address Lestrade, as soon as you can." Stalking away down the hallway, Sherlock didn't even wait to see the older man leave, so intent was he on texting his flatmate.

xXx

John left the old crumbling building and wandered along to the tiny park – now overgrown – where he used to run around and get muddy after his lessons with Master Gabrail. As he sat on the moss covered stone seat he could almost see his tow-headed younger self running off the excess energy he bottled up during his intense study.

At his feet he had carefully placed two bags, one a heavy duty canvas bag with several packets and bottles. The other was a large, old-fashioned leather satchel, filled with dog-eared exercise books and one or two older leather-bound tomes, books that had been out of print for the better part of a century.

His reverie was interrupted by the chirrup of an incoming text message.

'_**Lestrade has a body – SH'**_

John smirked.

'_**Yes he has – JW'**_

'_**A dead one. Meet me at Eversleigh Road, Battersea – SH'**_

With a sigh John looked at the bags at his feet. He couldn't leave them, nor could he take them with him, so he picked out a response telling his irritating flatmate that he'll be there as soon as he could, collected his bags together and headed out onto the street to hail a cab.

xXx

"Ah John, about time, you see this mark on the victim's throat? What does it tell you?"

John and Greg shared a look as the doctor moved towards the corpse.

"I've a hunch you already know." He muttered under his breath.

"I have my….. theory." Sherlock smirked.

"Yeah, I'll bet." John crouched down, pulling on latex gloves and gently probing the victim's skin. "A linear bruise across the throat, an inch or so thick…." He bent nearer, moving the head slightly. "…and a matching bruise across the back of the neck."

Sherlock hummed in approval as John continued to feel around the corpse's neck.

"Vertebrae dislocated, but I'd say the crushed hyoid is the cause of death."

"I'd say someone stood behind her with a couple of sticks and just dragged her back by the throat." Anderson stood in the doorway as if holding court.

"I don't doubt you'd say that Anderson, it's just one of many stupid comments to come out of your mouth." Sherlock didn't even bother turning around. "I suggest you engage your brain before you open your mouth again."

"What…." Anderson spluttered, turning puce and struggling against the hands that prevented him from flinging himself at the arrogant consultant.

John meanwhile had been looking around the room, trying to see whatever it was that gave Sherlock the answer.

"If you've finished bickering…" Greg sighed.

"I never bicker." The consulting detective answered haughtily, before waving a hand in the vague direction of the unfortunate woman. "It's an open and shut domestic Lestrade."

"It is?"

"What?"

John and Greg spoke in unison.

"Obvious." Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed impatiently. "The daughter killed her in an argument, folded up the murder weapon and left, hoping that a burglar would be blamed."

At the blank looks he garnered from all but John, he looked around incredulously. His flatmate simply kept his head down and waited.

"Surely even you can see the ransacking of the upstairs room is cursory and just gives the impression of a burglary, nothing more."

"Get off your soapbox Sherlock." John stifled impatience. "I for one would like to get home at a reasonable time today."

"You've been staring at the murder weapon, John."

"What, you?" Sally Donovan piped up.

"That's enough Sergeant." Lestrade finally lost patience. "For Christ's sake get on with it Sherlock."

"The clothes airer Detective Inspector, see how the bars are slightly bent? The daughter pushed her mother into the airer and it collapsed, trapping her head and neck. In a moment of madness she simply applied pressure enough to crush her mother's throat, then panicked and made it look like a burglary gone wrong."

There was a stunned silence, broken finally by a comment from John.

"She fought back though; there is evidence of blood and skin under her nails."

"She wouldn't have died quickly, despite the metal bar across her throat. She has layers of fatty tissue round her neck that would have had a cushioning effect, and although it didn't save her life it gave her time to mark her murderer." Pulling on his leather gloves Sherlock turned up his coat collar. "If I were a betting man Lestrade, I'd wager when you pick up the daughter she'll be wearing either long sleeves, or trousers to cover the scratches."

With a last look around he headed to the door.

"Come along John, I think they might manage from here."

John gave an exasperated sigh and peeled off his gloves.

Donovan sneered.

"Off you go, like a good lap dog."

John glared.

Greg opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by a wave of the doctor's hand.

"Forget it Greg, she can't help it if Anderson rubs off on her – in more ways than one." And with that Parthian shot he strode out after his friend.

xXx

"Where were you?" the quiet question broke the silence in the cab as they rode home.

John didn't pretend to misunderstand as he might have done at any other time – he could feel the worry emanating from the still figure next to him.

"Not here Sherlock." He replied softly, indicating the driver with a slight nod of his head.

"You insulted Sally." Changing the subject, a small smile twitched at the corners of Sherlock's full lips.

"I merely responded in kind." John defended his actions. "It might surprise you to learn that I get heartily sick of that woman calling you names and making snide remarks. Anyway," he added for good measure, "I didn't say anything _to_ her, just commented _about_ her. Sally Donovan may take it anyway she pleases, it made me feel better giving her a taste of her own medicine."

Sherlock's eyes widened with respect. He'd never had anyone bother to defend him before, and despite their growing friendship he hadn't for a moment believed that John would be so vocal in his friendship and support. It was a strange new phenomenon, and he coveted the feelings it gave him, wrapping them up and placing them carefully in his Mind Palace, to be taken out and examined when he was alone.

"Oi, stop daydreaming." There was a laugh in John's voice as he nudged his friend. "We're home."

He clambered out, leaving the lanky detective to follow him and pay the driver.

Once inside the front door John headed straight to 221A.

"Oh John dear, have you come for your bags?"

"Yes please Mrs Hudson." He smiled, slipping past the elderly lady to grab the bags he had earlier stowed in her living room.

"Really Sherlock," she called to her other tenant. "You didn't even give him time to put his things away before he was chasing after you!" Shaking her head she tutted at him.

Opening his mouth to repudiate the statement, Sherlock suddenly caught sight of the doctor standing behind their landlady, shaking his head, a forbidding expression on his face.

"My…er….my mistake Mrs Hudson, I hadn't realised he would take me at my word when I said there was no time to lose"

"Honestly, if you would just slow down a bit."

"Well, no harm done Mrs Hudson," John interrupted, gently moving her aside as he returned to the hallway. "Come on Sherlock, let's get these upstairs and leave Mrs Hudson in peace."

"Right." The curly headed detective flashed the landlady a bright smile and spun away, his coat swirling as he retreated up the stairs.


	5. A Kind of Chemistry

In silence John closed the door behind him and leaned against it with a sigh.

"John?"

The doctor looked up and grinned.

"Tea first Sherlock, then work." He moved through to the kitchen and started putting together the makings of his favourite brew.

"Work? You have something in mind?"

"Keeping the pair of us safe while we work out how to sort Moriarty out," turning away from the kettle John reached over and slapped Sherlock's hands away from the canvas bag. "Oi, keep out of that."

"What's in there?" Sherlock simply moved aside and reached once more for the bag.

"Bloody hell Sherlock, you're worse than a kid!" Snatching the bag away he put a cup of tea down in front of his friend. "Drink that, and I'll tell you what we're going to do."

Sherlock's eyes shone as John listed the chemicals and plant based compounds he had collected. The doctor just grinned again.

"There are also a large number of herbs and other dried plants in there." He explained. "Basically Sherlock, alchemy is just a kind of chemistry – but chemistry with a twist."

"Can you teach me?"

John paused, his blue eyes searching his flatmate's face.

"I'm no master alchemist Sherlock, not a teacher, and it's been a while since I practiced anything other than my healing skills…."

"Then let me work with you – I'm a fast learner."

There was almost a note of pleading in the younger man's voice that softened John's expression and he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the kitchen table.

"Well, as I'll need to use some of your lab equipment I can hardly say no…"

"Great!"

"So," John added with relish "your first task as my Sorcerer's Apprentice? Clean and sterilise said lab equipment – I can't afford to have any chemical residue in them once I start working."

To his amazement Sherlock lost none of his enthusiasm, instead he quickly swallowed down his scalding hot drink and dived into his work.

xXx

Impatience nipped at Sherlock's fingertips as he sat opposite John, watching as the man studied his notebooks.

"Self-preservation was one of the first things the Master taught me." John said softly, his eyes taking on a reminiscent, faraway look. He sat like that for a minute or so, and then shook himself as if to clear away a daydream. "Now, I may be a bit rusty with this stuff mate, but if I get it right, you may find you benefit from it in more ways than one."

"Oh?" Sherlock quirked and eyebrow.

"Yep." Flipping his book shut John rose and stretched. "The effect it has on anyone with malicious intent or giving off a less than friendly aura will feel incredibly uncomfortable, and the longer they stay the worse they will feel."

"Do you mean _anyone_ with malicious intent?"

Sherlock's eyes widened at John's affirmative nod.

"Mycroft!" he exclaimed. "You mean he'll be so uncomfortable…."

"He'll hopefully stay away." John confirmed "Anderson and Sally Donovan too with any luck." He added half under his breath as he reached for the rack of test tubes, sniffing each glass vessel to check that all traces of chemicals had been removed.

Sherlock rubbed his hands together at the thought.

"But before that happens we have a lot to get done."

For the next few hours they mixed and measured, heated, cooled and heated again a combination of chemicals and compounds. At each step John explained the reasoning behind his actions, allowing Sherlock a glimpse into the world of an Adept.

When at last John was satisfied that the mixture was complete he added a handful of herbs and covered the glass flask with a clean cotton cloth. Next he took the used equipment to the sink and immersed it in boiling water.

Sherlock looked on as the doctor moved back past the table, pausing momentarily to place his hand over the cloth covered flask closing his eyes and bowing his head.

"Muttering incantations?"

"Sending up a prayer more like."

John moved on down the hall and into the bathroom, where the sound of him vigorously scrubbing his hands could be heard clearly.

Drying his hands, John returned to find Sherlock still sitting at the kitchen table.

"Okay?"

"Hmm." Sherlock looked up. "What now?"

"Well, I'm starving." John's response didn't really surprise his flatmate. "I was going to reheat that left over risotto, provided you haven't contaminated it with human remains."

"Of course I haven't." Pushing away from the table Sherlock reached for the fridge door. "See, I've..."

"Not had a chance, I know." John interrupted him. "I was kidding. But before you touch that door you need to wash your hands."

"Wash my…."

"Hands, yes. We've been working with chemicals, herbs and compounds made from poisonous plants among other things – I have no intention of letting you poison us both, so you go and scrub up, and I may even make a cup of tea while I'm waiting for dinner to heat up."

Bemused, the younger man found himself scrubbing until his usually pale hands were pink and thoroughly clean.

Food and a fresh hot cup of tea were waiting on the coffee table for him when he returned, and John was sitting staring into the fire, lifting the food into his mouth, eating for the sake of it, not really tasting it as he stared into the fire.

"What happens next?" Sherlock broke into the other man's musings.

"Moriarty." John's blue eyes moved to gaze at his flatmate. "While he may know that you've learned to control your changes, he has no reason to think that you might strike out against him?"

"Strike out? In what way?" Sherlock reached blindly for his plate and pushed the food around on it with his fork.

"The minute we protect the flat and start working on a way to lift this curse it's highly likely he will know, he will feel it." Blinking as if waking from a light doze John's eyes moved to flick around the room. "I need to know if you have had any kind of contact with him or any other practitioner – have you approached anyone to help you lift this?"

For the barest moment Sherlock felt affronted that the thought should even have crossed the other man's mind, then fairness and memory prodded him.

"Yes, I know I said all other practitioners were allied to Moriarty – not a blind assumption I assure you, nor the result of asking for help." Sherlock sighed. "He had intimated that he had a network, an army of little soldier ants he called them, all working away to protect his interests – none as strong as him but each one….. _gifted_.

"Gifted." The doctor repeated slowly. "Yeah, I've seen what the 'gifted' of the other London can do. Master Gabrail still bore the scars years later."

"Tell me about Master Gabrail?"

"Later." With a sigh and a tired smile the blond man rose. "First you tell me – how long can you last before you need to change again?"

"A week, no more." Sherlock also rose, his plate put aside, food forgotten. "Although…"

"Your last transformation was spontaneous." John looked at him. "Can you take back control? Can you still transform when you want to and not only when the curse forces it on you?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered without hesitation. "Yes I can, I have mastery over my own body."

"Good."

"Good because…..?"

"Because the protection we are about to put in place around the flat will make any physical transformation difficult."

Sherlock followed him through to the kitchen.

"That means you'll need to think ahead, clear your room so you can use it to transform in and close the protection behind you. "You'll be more vulnerable than ever, alone in an unprotected room in a changing state." John reached into his canvas bag once more and pulled out three glass pots with glass lids.

Sherlock chewed his lower lip, as if considering the problem of transformation, but John continued to talk as if he hadn't noticed his friend's contemplation.

"Give me a hand with these," he handed his friend a pair of latex gloves before flexing his own fingers into the clinging rubber. "These two smaller ones are your portable protection, the stuff you'll use to protect the rest of the flat when you lift the protection on your room."

As Sherlock held the jars with steady hands John poured the thickened, jelly-like liquid from the flask until both were half full. The rest of the liquid was put into the larger jar, and the glass lids placed on each of them.

"Okay, now to protect the flat." John muttered to himself as he headed up the stairs to his room. He returned moments later with his army medical kit and a long thin wooden box.

Sherlock picked the box up and ran his fingers over the ornately carved lid. The wood had been smoothed by years of handling, the patina telling the tale of a lifetime of use.

"This is old."

"It once belonged to Master Gabrail, he gave it to me when he considered he had taught me everything he could." John took the box from Sherlock's light grasp and stared down at it. "That was the last time I saw him."

Lifting the brass clasps he carefully opened the lid, revealing an exquisitely carved pair of ivory tweezers, about eight inches long, and like the box it showed evidence of having been well used over the years.

"Natural materials, far better than using metal instruments when you're working with these kinds of mixtures." Reverently removing the delicate antique, John nodded his head towards the first aid kit. "In there you'll find a zip-lock bag full of cotton swabs, bring them into the living room." He turned and, picking up the larger jar and carried it through and placed it on the coffee table beside Sherlock's discarded dinner while he carefully cleared a space on Sherlock's desk.

"Right, let's have that jar on here." Taking the cotton swabs from Sherlock's hand he pointed to the clear space in the middle of the wooden desk.

Removing the lid, John picked up a swab with the ivory tweezers and dipped it in the gel. Carefully manipulating it so that he didn't drip any on the desk, he wiped the swab around the window frame, using a fresh one each time he dipped back into the mixture.

Standing behind him and peering closely, Sherlock noted the care with which the other man ensured even and unbroken coverage.

"What will it do?" He asked as his flatmate completed the first window.

"Well, apart from making anyone with less than friendly feelings towards us uncomfortable to the point of feeling unwell, it will have a positive effect on negative power."

"Right so, in English, anyone with the intention of using their power to hurt or harm will have it turned against them?"

"Exactly," It was John's turn to look approvingly at his friend. "And more to the point, a Mage such as Moriarty would ooze negativity from his very pores, so if he attempts to enter through the windows or project one of his curses through, it would hopefully prevent him getting to you."

"Hopefully?" Sherlock reached for the proffered tweezers and swabs, dipping the first into the mix and emulating John's careful work on the second window frame.

"Hmm. If nothing else it should hold him back long enough for you to take evasive action."

Sherlock glanced up from his work, catching and holding John's eyes.

"If he gets past this line of defence it will take him a while to readjust his power to compensate for the effect of the protection." John nodded towards the window, encouraging his friend to continue working. "You will pour the contents of one of the small jars across the doorway to your room, take down the protection within and leave."

"Transform?"

"And fly."

"And you?" Sherlock paused again, having ensured total coverage around the second window. "What will you do in all of this?"

"Let me worry about that…"

"No! I want to know what you plan to do."

"Right at this moment I don't know." John admitted, picking up the glass jar and moving back through to the kitchen.

As they repeated the process throughout the flat John explained that along with his own notebooks, he had managed to get his old Master's notes and papers too, and that he hoped to glean enough information to not only protect himself, but to fight back if he found himself face to face with Moriarty.

Finally they found themselves in Sherlock's room, moving furniture away from the window. As they moved the bedside table – all the better to reach the far side of the window – John's foot kicked the box of dye.

He didn't have to pretend surprise, for Sherlock was already bending to pick the offending item up, and looking a little uncomfortable as he did so.

"Hair dye?" John reached out and took the box from Sherlock's lax fingers and shook it. "Unused I'd guess, but this box looks old…"

"Before this…" Sherlock waved a hand indicating himself and their efforts at protection, "my hair was….different. Still curly, but not black like this. I bought this to convince Mycroft that a wish to disassociate myself from being considered to be like him drove me to change my hair colour."

He looked up warily through thick black lashes, and saw the moment the penny dropped.

"You're ginger? Really?" John stifled a giggle. "How ginger?"

"Redder than Mycroft." Sherlock muttered, his cheeks burning. "And so curly. He used to call me Coco the Clown."

That wiped the smile from the other man's face.

"Bastard! Well, I hope our little concoction makes him sick."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose at the restrained anger in the other man's voice, but didn't question it as John coated the remaining window frame.

xXx

John, for good measure, coated the frame around their flat door, and also the front door downstairs. Knocking on Mrs Hudson's door and getting no answer, he called up to Sherlock.

"Need you to break in."

"Mrs Hudson's flat?" Running down the stairs Sherlock frowned. "You think…?"

"Want to be safe." John stood aside as the younger man made short work of the lock. "She'll never know, and I'll be happier knowing there's a degree of protection both for her, and for the rest of the house as a whole."

Working quickly, they made sure that there was no sign that they had even been in the flat, let alone coating the window frames and doors. As they left, Sherlock reached up to the set of keys hanging next to the coat rack and jangled them in front of John's face.

"We might as well do 221C as well, complete the protection."

xXx

The house protected, and the remaining brew stored safely away, John scrubbed the kitchen table and washed the lab equipment while Sherlock ordered in take away.

When they finally sat down to eat Sherlock leaned his forearm on the table thoughtfully, and pointed at the blond doctor with his fork.

"You haven't told me yet how I take down the protection in my room, nor how I seal the protection behind me." Sitting up slightly he forked in a mouthful of rice, chewed, swallowed, then added "I assume it's something to do with the fact that you couldn't - or wouldn't – paint the carpet, and the piece of wood that you coated thoroughly and left standing inside my door with those two small jars."

"And you haven't worked it out?" John challenged, eating with relish as Sherlock's eyes narrowed on him, watching as the younger man's thought processes turned the evidence over in his mind.

Eventually Sherlock nodded.

"The wood fits precisely across the doorway to my room, wedging into the doorframe snugly. Coated, so that you didn't have to ruin the carpet – that's held in abeyance for if Moriarty should breach our defences – I haven't worked out why two jars of your concoction."

John grinned.

"Knew you'd work it out. The two jars are simple, when you put the wood down, just to be safe I want you to open the two jars, pour some of the contents of each jar into the lids and stand all four of them on the plank. The concentrate will be much stronger, and make it difficult for an enemy to get close enough to pick them up and remove them, and they won't want to kick them or the wood out of the way for fear of spillage – again, it's the concentration of the compound that will deter them."

"And the window?"

"If you're making a planned change, you just need to get a sponge with soapy water on it and wipe it away, it's really that simple."

"And in an emergency?"

"You will keep a water bottle on the floor beside your bed, with soapy water in it, and either a sponge or a roll of kitchen paper – emergency clean-up, chuck the used sponge or paper out of the window to remove all trace, change and go."

"Then we are almost set."

Pausing with his fork midway to his mouth John flicked his gaze over Sherlock's face.

"Almost?"

"I want," Sherlock said quietly, "you to be with me for my next transformation."


	6. The Wind of Change

Sherlock's words drove thought from John's brain and his fork, falling from lax fingers clattered against his plate.

"Problem?" Sherlock's voice remained low as he waited for his flatmate to respond.

It took a while.

"Why?" it came out as a croak, and John had to clear his throat before continuing "Surely that's….I mean…."

"It is a very personal thing John, but if I will be more vulnerable when I take down the defences, then it makes sense to have you with me, to watch my back." Sherlock broke eye contact, letting his gaze wander around the room before returning to John's face. "Once I learned to control when and where I changed, I learned to control my fear of Moriarty – now that we are planning to hit back at him I find that I'm…..afraid."

John swallowed hard. Everything Sherlock had told him about his first transformation came to the forefront of his mind, and he struggled to keep his expression neutral, knowing that if he wasn't very careful the younger man would read in his face the other secret he had kept from him, and he was afraid of the other man's reaction.

"Please?"

And that was all it took. John nodded his agreement.

xXx

As a soldier John was nothing if not thorough. Over the next twenty four hours he had Sherlock practice removing the protection from his bedroom window and re-setting it at the door, timing him until he was satisfied with the speed at which he would be able to take himself to safety.

"One more time." John said once they had restored the protection on Sherlock's room.

"Oh for goodness sake John," the younger man grumbled, bored now with the routine. "Aren't you tired? Surely it must be about time you were getting to bed."

"Ha! Not a chance." John snorted and folded his arms. "It may be nearly midnight, but rest assured I won't turn into a pumpkin."

"Your infantile sense of humour won't change the fact that…"

"You need to do it one more time," John interrupted him mid-snark. "Only this time I want you to take it through to transformation."

A knot of anxiety had formed in John's stomach with each practice run, as he knew that the time would soon be upon them that – like it or not – Sherlock would have to take this to its natural conclusion.

So far he had managed to keep his feelings under control, but the attraction he had felt when he first set eyes on this amazing man had not diminished as he hoped it would, instead he had revelled in the easy camaraderie that they shared, the way they had learned to work and live together in relative harmony, Sherlock's moods and lack of perception of personal space notwithstanding. Now here he was, asking him change, to do something so personal, so intimate, in an enclosed space while he stood and watched.

"Transform?" Sherlock's harsh whisper broke the silence, snapping John back into the here and now.

"You've got to do it mate, and sooner rather than later. If I've misjudged this mixture…."

"You won't have." The younger man sounded certain.

"Well I for one don't want to be testing that as Moriarty's trying to force his way in." John snapped.

Sherlock looked at him with narrowed eyes, his own fears now overshadowed by the anxiety he could see in every line of his friend's stance.

"What's wrong? And don't tell me nothing, I won't believe it. Your shoulders are tense, and you don't usually snap over something so….. insignificant."

John sighed.

"This is far from insignificant, Sherlock. Even now he may have realised there's something working against him." Running a slightly unsteady hand through his hair, John let his eyes roam over the doors and windows – anything to avoid looking into those piercing silver-grey eyes. "Let's do it, just this once, get it over with – then we can rest."

It was obvious to Sherlock that there was something more, but he realised that John was not going to spit it out, whatever it was, so they might just as well get on with it – despite what everyone thought of him he knew when to pick his moments to argue.

xXx

John stood well out of the way in the corner of Sherlock's room, watching as with ease of practice Sherlock quickly set the jars up outside and then closed the door.

With quick, efficient movements he cleaned the coating from around the window and opened them wide, then stepped back and cast a glance at his friend. John was standing watching the stopwatch feature on his wrist watch, yet he sensed the burn of Sherlock's eyes and looked up.

"Problem?"

"No." Quickly Sherlock turned his back and stripped out of his clothes.

Keeping his head down, John appeared to be engrossed in how long the process was taking, but from beneath sandy lashes he was taking in every aspect of his flatmate – smooth pale planes of supple skin-covered muscle interspersed with sharp angles where bones jutted through skin just a little too much for the doctor's peace of mind.

His peace of mind however was totally blown away as, with a swift, sudden yet controlled movement Sherlock dropped to a crouch. He held his arms held out wing-like behind him, his back bowed and his head flung back.

A rush of heat filled the room, and John screwed up his eyes against the dry burn, now openly trying to watch this transformation in all its twisted glory. The scene before him blurred, and he watched the solid lines of his friend become little more than smudges in the air, scattered dust reforming into the sleek shape of the raven, blue black feathers gleaming in the moonlight filtering through the window.

Hopping first to the bed, then to the windowsill he stretched his wings, letting the breeze ruffle through them briefly before pushing off, out into the night, leaving John to stare after him as he banked and headed for the trees in Regent's Park.

Picking up Sherlock's clothes, he folded them neatly onto the bed before stepping out of the room and closing the door firmly behind him.

He wouldn't go to bed until Sherlock returned, so he slipped up to his room to reclaim his books from their hiding place, intent on finding the solution to the curse.

xXx

Despite the late night waiting for the raven's return, John was awake at his usual early hour. Slowly stretching muscles made sore by the tension of long hours spent hunched over his books in his armchair, he debated with himself the wisdom of staying tucked up warm under his duvet verses the pleasure of getting up and having a leisurely breakfast before dividing his day between finding a job and finding a cure for his friend. In the end his bladder settled the argument for him, and he dragged himself away from the downy warmth, shrugging into his dressing gown and trotting downstairs to the bathroom.

Sherlock watched his friend's furtive dash with interest. He's known from the snuffling noises and the creaking of John's bed the precise moment he had woken, and knowing this to have been at least half an hour earlier wondered at the wisdom of leaving it so late to remedy his discomfort.

"Because it's bloody freezing in here after having the window open most of the night." John had stepped out of the bathroom and immediately guessed what had caused the puzzled expression on his friend's face. "In fact that explains why this flat is sometimes cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey!"

A raised eyebrow was the only outward acknowledgement Sherlock gave that John had correctly followed his unspoken thoughts.

"Tea would be nice."

"Yes it would," John countered quickly, "but if we wait for you to get it we'll both die of thirst."

"You wouldn't trust me to wash the cups properly after using them for experiments."

Sherlock soft retort stopped John in his tracks, and he peered carefully into the two mugs he had removed from the cupboard.

They looked clean enough, and when he sniffed at them all he could smell was washing up liquid, nevertheless he ran both of them under the scalding water from the hot tap, and gave them a thorough scrub before dropping in the tea-bags and covering them in boiling water.

As he left the drinks to steep he turned slowly to see his flatmate grinning at him.

"I've been had, haven't I?"

"John really, I've not used the cups for experiments since you threatened to cut off sensitive parts of my anatomy and feed them to me – a crude threat but one that I heeded nonetheless."

Shaking his head in mock despair John finished making the tea, bringing one across to Sherlock.

"Right," he announced as he returned to the kitchen. "Eggs on toast for breakfast."

"No, we won't have time." Sherlock took a sip of his tea. "We've been summoned to Scotland Yard – something about a parcel that was delivered to them this morning."

John paused, the bread halfway out of the wrapper.

"And you've not rushed us there why?"

"No point John, I've been 'advised' that I can't examine it until forensics has finished with it – which may or may not be done by the time we get there." A noise outside caught his attention and he stood and glanced through the window. "Actually, go ahead, make the breakfast."

"Wait…what? Why?"

"Why what?"

"Make the breakfast? A moment ago…"

"A moment ago I heard my brother's car pull up outside – I want to test your theory and see just how uncomfortable…."

His words were cut off by a tap at the door. With a smirk John moved to answer it.

"Good morning Mycroft, a little early aren't we?"

"I knocked what more would you want?" Mycroft frowned in irritation.

"Touchy." John turned his back and returned to the frying pan in time to flip the eggs, whistling tunefully.

The auburn haired man tugged a little at the collar of his shirt, an irrational urge to loosen his tie prickling at his fingertips.

"And must you always lounge around in your nightwear?" he snapped at his younger brother.

Sherlock glanced past him to see John, pulling faces like a five year old, trying to make him grin.

The corners of his mouth quirked upwards.

Mycroft glared.

"This is no laughing matter." He stamped his foot – then looked down in horror as if he couldn't believe his own actions. "I have a job for you."

"Nothing doing, Mycroft." John slipped past the older man and deposited a plate of eggs on toast in front of Sherlock. "We have an appointment at Scotland Yard in less than an hour, and I would like us both to have the chance to eat before we leave."

This announcement was met with a palpable silence edged with the sounds of Mycroft's teeth grinding in frustration.

With a sly wink at Sherlock John returned to the kitchen to collect his own plate, and both men sat eating with every sign of enjoyment.

Mycroft opened and closed his mouth several times, but neither of the flat's occupants took any notice. He turned on his heel and headed for the door.

"Goodbye Mycroft." Sherlock spoke around a mouthful off eggs. "Don't bother coming back."

John snickered.

Sherlock snorted.

And Mycroft could hear their hysterical giggling all the way back to his car.

xXx

Side by side the detective and his blogger strode through the outer office to Lestrade's glass walled inner sanctum.

As they crossed the threshold the Detective inspector looked up.

"Too much to ask of you to knock I suppose?" he asked rhetorically.

"You already invited me in." Sherlock waggled his mobile phone pointedly at the older man.

Lestrade grunted and returned to the report in front of him.

"This is an odd one – but then, you like the odd and unusual ones don't you?"

"Obviously."

"Well this should be right up your street." Turning the papers round so that John and Sherlock could read them, he continued. "The parcel was hand delivered, wrapped in plain brown paper and had your name on it."

"Yet you opened it?" Sherlock frowned.

"Standard procedure for unsolicited parcels to be handled by security, then checked by forensics." Lestrade paused and scratched his chin. "Odd though, it tested negative for traces of explosive but it sent the sniffer dogs loopy – they were running around whining…."

John's head shot up and he looked hard at the man sitting opposite.

"What was in the box?"

"Well, I'm just coming to that." Raising a hand he gestured to Anderson who had appeared, hovering in the doorway. "We can't get it open."

He took the box from the Forensic officer and put it on the desk.

"We tried to x-ray it, but it blurred the film." Anderson added.

Sherlock nodded as he picked up the box and tested its weight.

"Lead lined." He said to John, who nodded and took the box from him, turning it until he could clearly see the picture, inlaid in brass on the highly polished wooden lid.

"Familiar." The doctor muttered, looking away, his eyes losing focus as he trawled his memory.

"It's a tarot card."

John drew a sharp breath and looked at his friend.

"Of course. It's a representation of the Ace of Swords." He lifted the box again to be sure of the correct orientation. "Set upright."

The flatmates looked at each other for a long second, before John spoke once more.

"The Ace of Swords - the wind of change."


	7. Wicked Game

Greg looked from Sherlock to John and back again.

"Tarot? Isn't that just so much hippie hocus pocus?"

"Yeah." John answered quickly, before Sherlock could say anything. "Whoever sent this is obviously slightly unbalanced, wouldn't you say? So using tarot to try to scare us is about par for the course."

Sherlock meanwhile had crouched down beside the table, to get a closer look at the box. This close he could also smell…

"Camphor!" His exclamation had every head turning his way. "That's what upset the dogs."

John caught his eye and frowned, watching as Sherlock blinked slowly and tipped his head slightly towards the box.

"Can you open it?" was all he asked. Sherlock grinned.

"It's essentially a Chinese puzzle box." Long artistic fingers gently felt around the sides, pushing and manipulating until, under his gentle but persistent pressure a small panel clicked, slid, and pushed inwards, releasing a heavy duty magnetic lock set between the wood and the led lining.

Standing he let his hands hover over the lid as if unsure whether to open it.

"Be careful" John advised. "Don't lean over it, open it at arm's length."

The younger man rolled his eyes, but before he could much else Anderson shouldered past with a huff.

"There's no explosives….."

"Anderson…..!"

"Stop…."

The forensics lead ignored the shouts from the others in the room and grasped the top of the box, wrenching it open.

There was a loud fizzing and a bright white flash as a combination of potassium chlorate and phosphorus detonated.

"Shit!" Greg rushed around to grab the blinded officer and lower him into a chair.

Neither Sherlock nor John had been close enough to suffer more than slightly fuzzy eyesight, and the nauseating smell of camphor mixed with burning chemicals.

"Jaysus!" John exclaimed, covering his nose and mouth, while Sherlock turned his sneer on Anderson – its effect a little marred by the fact that the recipient couldn't see it.

"Are you really that stupid?" he said scathingly. "Did you not think that anyone who has taken so much trouble to taunt and intrigue us would set a trap for the idiot opening the box without due care."

"Leave it Sherlock." Greg snapped, standing aside so that John could examine Anderson's smoke blackened face, carefully checking the spark burns around his eyes before stepping back and looking around at the assembled police officers.

"Sally, pass me the first aid kit then get someone ready with a car." In efficient doctor mode John prevented Anderson's hands from reaching up to his face with one hand, while accepting the green and white box with the other. "Keep still Anderson, I'm going to pad and bind your eyes, then Sally's going to take you to the nearest A&amp;E."

"But…" Anderson croaked, but John was already placing sterile gauze over his damaged eyelids and wrapping a crepe bandage lightly around them.

By the time it was done Sally was waiting by his side.

"Don't let him poke or prod at his eyes – if he's any sense…"

"Which he hasn't" Sherlock interjected.

John ignored him and carried on.

"If he has any sense he won't try. That's going to be very painful, and I suspect will need specialist treatment." As he spoke he pulled out a notepad from an inner pocket in his jacket, scrawled a few lines and tore the page out. "Give that to the triage nurse at the hospital, it may help him to get through quicker."

He watched as Donovan carefully led the forensics officer away, then turned back to see his flatmate poking around the edge of the box with a pencil he had filched from Lestrade's desk.

"Rather hit and miss way to get our attention." Sherlock scraped a little of the remaining chemical up and sniffed at it, immediately identifying and naming the chemicals involved. "There's no guarantee that will detonate spontaneously."

"Did you know that was there?" John eyes narrowed suspiciously. Sherlock avoided his gaze.

"Not _know_ exactly."

"And you let him…." Greg ejaculated.

"Now hang on." Leaping to Sherlock's defence, John drew himself upright, and suddenly there was no question as to why he had risen to the rank of Captain in the army. "I think you'll recall you and I both tried to stop him, but as usual he didn't listen."

Sherlock looked smug. The ex-army captain turned his head and stared.

"Don't."

One elegant eyebrow raised.

"No Sherlock, not one idiotic remark – if Anderson hadn't opened it you would have; that could have been you."

Both Greg and Sherlock stared at the vehemence in John's voice.

"What?" the doctor snapped. "You haven't figured it out yet? Anderson's eyesight could be permanently damaged, and all because someone wanted to set a booby trap for you!"

His words hung for a moment in the air, awaiting a reaction from his two companions. Greg looked a little chastened, considering his outburst, but Sherlock just sniffed and looked totally unrepentant – falling back on his usual supercilious stance. He would have said something snarky, but his attention was caught by the look on John's face as he stared at the contents of the puzzle box.

Turning his head a fraction he saw what it was that caused such a look of horror on one usually not easily fazed. Neatly laid out at the bottom of the box, its feathers slightly singed from the flash of burning chemicals, lay a dead bird.

A large dead bird.

A raven.

xXx

They travelled in silence back to the flat, the box held securely in Sherlock's hands, its contents untouched.

Greg had argued that it should go to forensics, Sherlock that it was addressed to him and therefore, technically, his property. John, stepping between the two promised that they would let Greg know if it was anything more than just a dead bird.

Sherlock's parting shot had been to suggest that someone ask the wardens of the Tower of London if they had lost one of their flock.

Opening the door, John made a quick but thorough check of the rooms before joining Sherlock in the kitchen, where he had placed the box and was once more staring at the dead bird.

"Not a flock." John said absently as he filled the kettle and ran hot water into the sink to wash up the breakfast things they had left on the side.

"Pardon?" sharp eyes stared at John's bejumpered back, almost willing him to turn around.

"Not a flock." The doctor carried on washing the plates and cutlery, scrubbing at a recalcitrant trace of egg that adhered to the tines of a fork. "The collective for ravens is an unkindness…"

"_Oh_…"

"Yeah, makes a strange kind of sense doesn't it, his choice of transformation?" John turned and leaned back against the worktop, drying his hands on the tea towel. "Certainly what he did to you was unkind to say the least – seems this Moriarty bloke has a sense of humour."

"It's not funny." Sherlock glared at his friend.

"No it's not, it's warped, cruel and twisted." He nodded towards the contents of the box. "Is cause of death obvious?"

"No, I'll have to perform an autopsy of sorts." With a soft huff of frustration Sherlock glanced around for something to work on.

"Use Clingfilm." John suggested, dragging a roll out of the cupboard. "Not exactly sterile, but food grade – should reduce contamination."

Sherlock smiled his thanks as he started to clear and cover the table.

"Have fun." John picked up his tea and headed out of the kitchen.

"Where are you going?"

"Not far, I have some more reading to do." He indicated the stairs, and his stash of books hidden in his room. "Shout if you need me."

Wearily the doctor trudged up the stairs and shut himself away in his room with his collection of notebooks. The box could only have come from Moriarty, and this could only mean that Moriarty was aware that they were taking steps to neutralise his curse. The clock had started…..

xXx

"You delivered it?" The soft Irish accent was soft, and all the more deadly for being calm and well-modulated.

The man he questioned, middle aged and wearing a stolen UPS uniform, quaked slightly as he responded that yes, it had been delivered with a collection of genuine deliveries to Scotland Yard.

"B….by the time they would have realised it wasn't one of the Home Office packages I was already out of the way….."

"Good." Slender fingers reached out and stroked down the trembling man's cheek. "You've done well, very well."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Now, you go off and get changed out of that ridiculous uniform, and Sebby here will bring your payment."

If the uniformed man had looked closely enough, he would have seen that the Irishman's smile didn't reach his eyes, yet if he had turned and looked at Sebby, he would have seen that not only did his smile reach his eyes, but it lit up his whole face and he looked positively excited at the prospect of making the aforementioned 'payment'.

Turning away, Moriarty lowered himself into a high-backed wing chair, smoothing the fabric of his trousers as he crossed one elegant leg over the other. Resting his sharp chin on his fist he stared into the fire, his eyes looking deep into the flame.

Concentrating hard he looked for Sherlock, trying to see what his victim was planning. Moriarty had used this method on many occasions to check up Sherlock, had known from the first time that he had learned to control his transformations, had even watched as he 'set the scene' for his brother, the hair dye a cover for the permanent change in the melanin that controlled the pigments in his skin and hair – especially his hair – causing a greater rift between them.

This time however he could see nothing, no line of vision into the Baker Street flat, nor warm breath of thought as he reached out to search the consulting detective's mind.

With a grunt of annoyance he leaned closer to the flame and tried again, threading his fingers through his smooth dark hair, pushing them into his skull as if by doing so he could increase the power of his mind.

"It's done Mr Moriarty," Sebastian Moran broke into his endeavours, returning to the room with a smile on his face and wiping the blood from his hunting knife.

"Damn him!"

"What's happened?" almost instantly Moran was on his knees and gazing worshipfully up at the Magister.

"He's found a way to stop me seeing him." With a snarl Moriarty pushed out of his chair and stood, his arm resting along the mantlepiece, his foot on the hearth.

"Let me try…"

A cold smile chased across sharp features, and Moriarty reached down and grasped his apprentice's chin.

"Sebby, Sebby…..you are merely a novice, you'll need to study much harder before you can 'sight' a chosen one, especially when he's not your chosen one, but mine!" With a flick of his wrist he pushed Moran's away. "Holmes is proving himself to be far cleverer than I gave him credit for."

"Then let me take him out once and for all."

"Oh yes, and do you think that taking out Scotland Yard's favourite consultant with something as crude as a knife or a gun will suffice? It would end your career Sebby, I'd have to let you go." With a pitying shake of his head Moriarty returned to his chair. "Such a shame that would be, but I really couldn't have them tracing you to me and revealing our association."

Sebastian watched and waited for his master to speak again, ready to do his bidding.

At last, as if coming to a decision Moriarty relaxed back into his chair and let his hand caress the other man's shoulder.

"Fetch my cards." He said softly, watching as Sebastian did his bidding without question.

Taking the pack of Tarot cards from their ornately carved mahogany box, he ran his hands lightly over them before cutting and re-cutting the pack.

"Sherlock is playing a very dangerous game" Moriarty whispered to the cards as he started to lay them out. "Well if he wants to play, then it should be a game of my choosing."


	8. Backlash

"Suffocated?" John looked incredulous. "How the hell do you suffocate a bird?"

Sherlock looked up from body stretched and pinned to a cling film covered corkboard.

"Look here, you can see there are seven air sacs, the lungs don't work the same as ours."

Humming in agreement the doctor indicated that he should continue.

"Effectively the chest muscles expand and contract, forcing air in and out. All Moriarty needed to do was hold the creature tightly."

"And you've ruled out anything else – poison, broken neck…"

"Of course." A slender hand indicated several vials of blood and stomach contents before picking up a sharp metal probe and using it to point out the intact cervical vertebrae. "But look at this…"

Using one of John's tongue depressors, filched from his old army medical kit he lifted the air sacs, one after the other.

"You can see that although there are few blood vessels in these sacs, however these have burst from being forced shut against the chest muscles."

"Can also see you've scavenged through my med kit."

"You don't mind do you?" Surprise widened the younger man's eyes as he saw John's frown.

"Would rather you asked – know that you never will though." There was an edge of laughter in John's response, softening the complaint. "So, suffocated bird – a warning?"

"I think we must assume so John, maybe he's showing me his plans for my demise?"

"He'll have to go through me first." John muttered, looking down at the dull blue-black feathers on the underside of the stretched out wings, and totally missing the odd look that momentarily sparked across the other man's face.

"Did Greg come back to you about the provenance of…um.." John waved in the direction of the small black corpse.

"He sent a text – there is one less raven at the Tower, the keepers thought he had maybe crawled off somewhere to die but his mate apparently keeps calling for him."

"Oh this just gets better and better."

The significance of John's words were lost on Sherlock, he was too busy considering what Moriarty's next move might be.

John moved away, crossing to stare sightlessly out of the living room window, his mind back with Master Gabrail.

"_John, you must understand that most Mages are peaceful, like you and I they are natural scientists, but when a Mage turns bad…" _

_They were sitting, as they often did, in armchairs on either side of a roaring fire, John's short legs dangling several inches above the floor as he watched the old man toasting crumpets over the open flame._

"…_they use the strengths of nature and turn it in on itself, using it against the rest of us."_

"_But what does it mean?" John asked, his open, youthful face creased in concentration._

"_Nature has the strength to harm as well as to heal." The alchemist explained. "When we push our power into it we increase its healing force – but when a Mage pushes negative power the results could be more than this world could stand."_

"_Could I do that Master, could I use negative power?"_

_The old man leaned across and glared angrily at the teenager._

"_Why boy? Why would you want to do this?" He growled. "Do you think it's clever to abuse the gifts you've been given, to risk everything we have built up over centuries? Is this what you want to do?"_

"_No Master!" panic stricken blue eyes filled with tears. "I just wanted to know, to understand." John's earnest voice almost broke with his distress. "What I meant was can we all access positive and negative power, or is it only certain people that have gone bad that….that…"_

"_Now boy, don't take on." The Master's voice softened as he leant across to reassure his pupil "Any one of us could be the Mage who saves this world…..or the one who destroys it!" _

_The older man pulled away and turned his attention back to the crumpet toasting on the end on his fork._

"_The negativity turns inwards, blackens a man's heart and soul, and eats him alive from the inside out." He worked as he spoke, buttering the food, sharing it with John. "What I have always seen in you John is goodness, a need to help. That is your destiny, your future – yet one day you may find yourself facing everything that is bad about our world – I beg you not to heed it's call – because call it will, in an effort to get to whomsoever you have chosen to protect." _

_He looked down and smiled at the boy, pale and wide eyed and hanging on his every word, and nodded._

"_Yes, you'll do John Watson." Gabrail said on a sigh "I know you'll be an alchemist and healer that we can all be proud of….."_

"John?" Sherlock reached out and tentatively placed a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"What?" John flinched and spun round, frowning up into Sherlock's worried face.

"I called you a couple of times, you were miles away…."

"Sorry," John huffed a laugh, shaking his head." Yes, miles….but years away too."

For a moment there was silence as John appeared to drift once more.

"John? Something's troubling you about this….."

"I wish I could just bring back what it was that he told me…." John's face crumpled into a frustrated frown. "…something about…"

xXx

"Sebby, I need you to send a messenger."

Moran looked up from the flames where he had been attempting to 'see' the cursed man, watching as Moriarty tapped his lip with the edge of a Tarot card

"What is the message?"

Cold black eyes glowed as a sneer curled the edge of Moriarty's lip.

"I want a body left for Sherlock's friend, Mr Lestrade, to find. Not just any old body….I want it to be a shiny new police constable, a wooden top fresh out of Hendon College."

The blond henchman's eyes lit up, and he rose from the floor beside the fire.

"Anything in particular, Mr Moriarty?"

The Magister leaned forward and patted the other man's hand.

"My dear boy you may be as creative as you wish, just be careful not to get caught."

Moran licked his lips.

"Yes Mr Moriarty." He turned to leave, but Moriarty's fingers slipped around his wrist and held him back.

"Sebby, I want you to pin this card on the body, it must be pinned this way up - " Moriarty held the card up to demonstrate. " – because the message is in the card."

Letting go of the man's wrist he waved him away, and turned back to stare once more into the fire.

xXx

"I'd have called you in anyway," Greg met them at the entrance to the derelict house, "but this is getting weird, and more than a little sick."

Side by side Sherlock and John strode across the pavement.

"Weird how?" Sherlock was already studying their surroundings as he moved past the Detective Inspector and in through the door.

"Sick how?" John paused, his hand on Lestrade's arm. "What's happened?"

"Come and see for yourself." He turned to follow the younger man in, know that John would fall in behind him.

In what was once the living room of the house, its boarded windows let in a little light through the cracks between the planks nailed across them but it was enough to light the body.

Sherlock was already examining the young man's wounds, his keen eyes taking in everything about the victim.

"Twenty-five years old, passed out of Hendon less than a year ago, unmarried and shares a flat with two other officers." He looked briefly at the young man's socks and shoes. "One of them owns a cat – long haired tabby – but not him, there's not enough hair on him for that."

John stood beside Greg just inside the doorway and swallowed down the bile rising in his throat.

"Jesus…."

"Appropriate."

"Sherlock!"

"John?" Sherlock turned with a confused look on his face. "Why is that not good?"

"The poor bastard has been crucified Sherlock, try to show a little humanity for a change!"

"Will it help him?"

Shaking his head John stepped forward, moving slowly round to look at the victim.

"We would have moved him but thought you needed to see him 'in situ' as it were." Greg sounded a little uncomfortable, as if aware of the awfulness of the situation.

"That and pulling those nails out of his wrists would have done more damage and possibly ruined any chance we have of gathering all the possible evidence he has to give us."

Sherlock stepped up behind John, drawing his attention to the sharpened metal spike, driven first through the constable's custodian style helmet then on into the man's chest.

"It looks like that was the killing stroke." He said, lowering his voice a little. "Though what protection the victim thought that hat might be…."

"They're designed to prevent injury from bricks and clubs, not metal spikes." Lestrade muttered from the doorway.

"And I imagine the poor bastard was desperate." John growled, looking closely at the other wounds. "Nails through his wrists – heavy duty ones, strong enough to hold the weight of a uniformed officer…"

"Approximately eleven stone…"

John glanced wryly at his friend.

"Only approximately?"

"Well…."

"That's enough." Greg interrupted, "What about…"

"The tarot card?" John stepped back and looked over the scene before turning his attention back to the cadaver. "Chaos and struggle."

"How come?"

"Sorry?" narrowing his eyes John looked at the Detective Inspector.

"How come you know about this stuff?"

For a moment Sherlock thought John might refuse to answer, but then a small smile crossed the doctor's face.

"You've obviously never spent night after night just waiting for something to happen, in a place where you can't even wander off and get a beer when the boredom became too much." He grinned. "One of our Lieutenants used to read Tarot cards in the hospital mess, she taught me when the others got fed up with having their cards read."

"And the placing of it?"

The grin faded from the doctor's face.

"Nailed to his forehead? It was an afterthought, you can tell by the lack of blood-flow across it." Shaking his head he turned and walked towards the door, pausing as he reached it but not looking back at the two men standing there. "The crucifixion, the placing of the card, none of that was necessary. The poor bastard was already dead, there was no need to do it."

And he walked out of the building and into the early evening chill. By the time he reached the end of the street Sherlock had caught up with him, unusually keeping his thoughts and theories to himself. As they turned the corner he stopped.

"Don't say anything Sherlock, just get us a cab, we need to be home."

xXx

In silence they walked back into 221B, the flat looked exactly as they had left it, and taking a deep breath John released it slowly, letting his tension go with it.

"I've already advised Lestrade that we will work this case, but it's by no means straightforward." Sherlock stood looking down into John's concerned face. "Why didn't you want me to talk when we left the house?"

"This is too coincidental, these 'gifts' are too pointed…"

"Gifts? You think the body is another gift for me?"

"Gift – or warning. The Tarot cards, the six of swords reversed is a portent of chaos and struggle…." John sighed and headed for the kitchen and opened the fridge…then closed it again with a bang. "Really? You had to put the bird in the fridge?"

"I did cover it with cling film." Standing in the kitchen doorway Sherlock frowned. "John it's not like you to be put out by where I store experiments and things…."

"You're right." John walked across to the toaster and shoved a couple of slices of bread into it, reaching into a cupboard for a tin of beans. "I'm over-reacting. You want something to eat?"

Sherlock shook his head, watching as John put together his meal and make them both tea.

"There's something, a memory, but it's just out of reach," John sat down with a tray across his lap. "And I the more I see, the more I think about it, the further it slips from my grasp." With a gusty sigh he reached for the television remote and started flicking through the channels. "I think I need to put it aside for a while, what about you?"

"I need to think."

In predictable fashion the younger man rolled onto his back on the couch and soon the only sound that could be heard was buzz and whirr of Obi Wan Kenobi's light sabre….

xXx

Moriarty closed his eyes and smiled.

"Ah, you've found yourself a helper as well as a flatmate! How clever of you Sherlock."

Beside his chair a large tiger stretched out toward the fire, his ears flicked up listening to the soft Irish voice. A smooth skinned hand reached down and scratched the top of the big cat's head.

"We shall just have to see how clever you have become, won't we Sebby dear?"

The tiger gave a soft growl.

"Easy tiger." Moriarty tittered, fondling around the fur-covered jowls. "You shall have your prize my lovely, when I bring down Sherlock Holmes then you can play cat to John Watson's mouse."


	9. The Set Up

Greg stared out of his office window, the mug of coffee in his hand growing steadily colder, his thoughts stuck in a loop of horror, disgust and sadness.

Although the deceased officer was not in his division, not under his command in any way, he still felt it was his responsibility to ensure that the man's next of kin had the answers to all their questions, and so he had gone with the constable's senior officer to break the news.

It was, as he had anticipated, an awful experience – one that he really didn't want to have to do again - yet he saw in the family's eyes the gratitude behind the pain, their thanks sincere as the two officers bade them farewell. At times like this he wondered why he ever applied for promotion.

A soft knock at the door dragged his thoughts back to the case at hand. He turned and waved Sally Donovan through the door.

"What've you got?"

"Nothing." Sally sounded disgusted. "The local New Age shops don't recognise the brand of cards, and Inigo Merlin who runs the Incense Emporium in Piccadilly thinks they may only be available in Germany." Her lips quirked slightly as she said the man's name.

"Imported?"

"Inigo says not." With a sigh Sally slumped into a chair. "He thinks the company that makes these are specialists, and make them to order."

Greg looked at his Sergeant and frowned. She held the card towards him, pointing at one of the corners.

"He thought he recognised this – it's like a makers mark, a trade mark. These cards aren't new, they've been well handled and the picture is worn. I've scanned it and sent it to the Berlin Police with a request to contact the company to confirm it's theirs, and see who they made it for."

"Seems too easy…."

"Well if you have a better idea." Sally sounded defensive.

"No, no I haven't." Greg rubbed his eyes. "You've got it all covered Sally, well done. I just mean….for all your hard work I don't think we'll find our culprit."

xXx

The rapid tapping of laptop keys complimented the sound of rain hitting the window of the Baker Street flat.

"I hate to admit it but on the face of it Lestrade was right, Tarot is just so much…."

"Hippy Hocus Pocus?" John finished for his flatmate with a smile. "Well yes it is now, but back when Ulmay Gabrail was a child, and even further – when his grandfather and great grandfather were children – they were a very real power channel for mages."

"I can find nothing of use on the internet." Sherlock grimaced with frustration, then jumped as a leather bound notebook landed with a thump on the table by his hand.

He looked up at John, a question in his eyes.

"His notebook, or one of them – look after it." With a sharp nod John turned and headed to the kitchen. "Jam or cheese?"

"What?"

"Sandwich. Jam or cheese?"

"Not for me thanks." Sherlock moved to pick up the notebook but found John standing beside him once more, his hand resting on the leather cover.

"Not acceptable. You eat or I rescind permission for you to read this."

"John…"

"Sherlock, can't you understand? We tweaked the lion's tail and…" John's eyes suddenly lost focus as his voice died in his throat.

"John? What's wrong?"

"That's it!" The blond doctor turned and dived into the ageing leather satchel he had placed beside his chair, flicking through the contents and finally coming up with an old school-style book.

He returned to Sherlock's side, flicking through the pages of tightly packed childish scrawl.

"Were you practicing your 'Doctor's writing' even then?" A smile ghosted across Sherlock's lips as he quirked an eyebrow at his friend.

"Yeah, bloody funny." But the sting was taken out of John's words by his answering smile. Without thinking he leaned his hip against the side of Sherlock's chair, his forearm resting on Sherlock's shoulder as he found the notes he was looking for.

"There, look!" He leant down and propped the notebook against Sherlock's half closed laptop, his finger tapping the page, drawing the other man's attention to a specific section.

Sherlock shivered slightly as John's warmth drew back, removing himself from the younger man's personal space and giving him room to study the writing.

"If you can read that….." Heading back to the kitchen John called back over his shoulder. "I think we can safely say we know something of the mage we're up against."

Looking up from the hurriedly written pages of notes, Sherlock watched as John made them sandwiches and tea.

"Someone who calls to animals?"

"Yeah, sort of." John put a plate and cup in front of his friend, taking his own to the comfort of his armchair where he sat, his cup balanced on one arm, his plate resting on his lap. "The name they call themselves is Empath sy'n siarad â Greaduriaid or Empath Greaduriaid."

"Celtic."

"A sort of twisted Welsh. Don't laugh, but apparently many have claimed blood kinship with Merlin…" He looked across at the frown on Sherlock's face. "Of Arthurian legend? The king's sidekick? The ancient sorcerer who grew younger and men grew older?"

Sherlock continued to look blank.

"Deleted it?" John said with an odd warmth in his voice. "Never mind, the guy never existed –he was just a figment of old tales and legend."

"Right." Sherlock's brow cleared and he applied himself to listening to his flatmate's words.

"The name means Empath who speaks to Creatures – or something close to it – and what started out as…" John shrugged "I dunno, a kind of ancient veterinary surgery, understanding an animals ills and curing them."

Leaning forward and clasping his hands in front of him, John looked into Sherlock's multi-hued eyes.

"However it started it developed eventually, moving through an ability to control the animals' actions, to eventually forcing a metamorphosis of creatures into people and people into creatures."

"Well that explains why he did what he did to me – but not why he has started this now? It's been four years…."

"You refused to join him right? He retaliated by dropping the curse on you, and was obviously satisfied that no matter how much control you develop you can't stop it happening forever." Cuffing a hand through his hair John thought for a minute then continued. "And that was fine until we decided to try to break it – now I think he's flexing his muscles, taunting us with imagery, teasing us with cryptic messages."

"You said he'll start to feel it when we try to lift the curse but he noticed as soon as we tried to protect the flat."

"And he felt it lot sooner than I anticipated – he's strong. So now we have to move a bit quicker, putting your chemistry skills to good use." John waved a hand at the books Sherlock still had beside him. "You read those, see what you make of them from a 'normal person's' perspective while I double check these" he pointed to the notebooks still in his old school satchel, "to see what I need to do next."

xXx

Kneeling beside Moriarty's chair, Moran held out a second carved mahogany box, twin to the one already on the table at the Mage's side.

"Your Major Ancarna" he breathed reverently, his golden eyelashes fluttering as his master ran a thin hand through his hair before relieving him of his precious burden.

"I need you to go on the hunt for me." Moriarty said softly. "Bring me back our allies, Kitty Reilly and Jeff Hope – then bring me Molly Hooper."

xXx

Sherlock was still marvelling at the contents of Master Gabrail's notebook when he realised that John was no longer sitting opposite him.

With a start he looked around, huffing out a sigh of relief as he spotted the older man in the kitchen scrubbing the wooden kitchen table to within an inch of its life.

A second glance showed he'd also re-washed all of Sherlock's Erlenmeyer flasks, pipettes, test tubes and beakers. To this array he had added what looked like a crucible made of polished graphite and a black marble pestle and mortar set, all of which looked old and well used.

Flicking a glance across to the living room, John caught his look.

"Learn anything?"

"Only that your old teacher had an incredible mind, and that I seem to have been reading for hours yet I still know very little of the knowledge of an alchemist."

"What he actually wrote down was just a drop in the ocean of his knowledge Sherlock, most was kept in his memory and in his teachings." Wiping the table one last time John threw the cloth into the sink and left the furniture to dry, walking slowly out towards the stairs as he continued talking. "He knew that reading his notes would be as good a refresher as any, and I think I've worked out where I need to start."

John's voice faded as moved further from Sherlock, drawing the young man to his feet to stand at the foot of the stairs to ask

"And where is that?"

"With this."

Over his shoulder John carried his old army medical kit, and in his hand were several sealed pairs of sterile medical grade latex gloves.

Biting back a need to ask questions, Sherlock followed his flatmate back into the kitchen, and watched as he removed several more sealed and sterile items from his bag along with an elastic tourniquet.

With little more than a nod John gestured to his friend to sit down and roll back his sleeve. Warily, and with something akin to a flush of embarrassment Sherlock did as he was told, hearing the tut of disapproval that the other man tried to keep under his breath when he saw the pinpoint scars of drug use.

"Well at least they are not as bad as some I've seen." He muttered softly, slipping the tourniquet around Sherlock's upper arm and tightening it carefully. "Okay, make a fist for me." He watched his friend comply.

"Is your other arm like this?" The question was out before John could stop it, and blue eyes met hooded grey as he prepared to slide the needle into the vein.

"No." Sherlock was the first to break eye contact as he whispered his response. "I never wanted….. I just needed something to still the clamour, to light the world so that I could see my way."

John said nothing, just slipped the needle expertly in, attaching and replacing several vacuum tubes as they rapidly filled, standing them in a small plastic rack.

Finally, he pressed a cotton wool ball to the vein as he withdrew the needle, pressing lightly on it to stem the flow of blood before deftly sticking a plaster over it.

"May I see?" he gestured to Sherlock's covered arm.

Shaking fingers undid the cuff and rolled the second sleeve up. The scars here were larger, though still not bad.

"My left hand was less steady when administering the shot." Sherlock looked down in disgust as if seeing the damage for the first time.

"I've still seen lots worse." Despite having faded significantly, the tan on John's hands stood out in stark contrast to the pale fragile skin of Sherlock's inner arm as he traced the fine blue vein that ran through the crease of his inner elbow.

"Are you ever tempted to go back to it?"

Wrenching his eyes away from the dance of John's fingers Sherlock once more met that clear blue gaze. There was no censure to be seen, just concern and friendship, and he felt encouraged.

"Not…. Not recently. But before I learned to control the transformations…" A small smile quirked his lips as he added "Besides, I had no idea how it would affect me if I changed while high…."

"And a raven high on cocaine could be something of a problem." It was no good; John couldn't keep a straight face as he imagined his friend flying straight out of the window and crashing into a tree, landing on his feathered arse with stars circling his head.

Some of his vision must have communicated to Sherlock as the pair of them chuckled loudly, dispelling any tension from the atmosphere.

Bullying himself into action, John thrust two vials of blood into Sherlock's hand, putting the rest into the fridge for later use and removing the cling film wrapped raven.

"Take those to the St Bart's – I need a control to work from."

"So, a straightforward blood analysis? DNA markers from the second one?"

"Yeah, DNA markers too – if anyone asks, you are trying to find out if the blood has been contaminated in any way."

Working quickly John managed to withdraw enough blood from the dead bird for a second analysis sample, labelling the tube before rewrapping and returning the cadaver to its cold resting place.

"DNA markers with this one as well." He watched as Sherlock slipped it into a different pocket. "I don't know yet what use it may be, but while we can let's do it."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm off to buy a pot plant or two for the flat – I think it's about time we grew some salad vegetable, to offset the take-away crap we usually eat." John smiled. "I thought maybe some Vert de Montmagny, maybe some Achillea millefolium….."

"French dandelion and yarrow?"

"The benefits of working with fresh over dried outweighs the hassle of having pots on the windowsill." He moved to grab his jacket, throwing Sherlock's Belstaff at him. "The control should take you about an hour, ask the DNA lab to get those results back as soon as possible – pull in any favours you can, the quicker we have this, the sooner we can get to work."

As they talked they descended the stairs and stepped out of the door. With a brief wave John turned and strode up the street, crossing to Regents Park, disappearing in through the wrought iron gates as Sherlock hailed a cab.

xXx

Mike Stamford woke slowly, his head throbbing and his body stiff from lying on the cold floor of the mortuary.

All round him were the residual signs of the violent struggle that had ensued when the man with blond hair and strange yellow eyes burst into the room and demanded that Dr Hooper go with him, a struggle that had left him with a large lump on the back of his head and his blood smeared beneath him on the tiled floor.

It was into this chaos that Sherlock stepped, his eyes wide as he took in the smashed glass and torn papers strewn around.

"Stamford?" He moved forward and helped the fallen man to sit up. "What happened here?"

Mike shook his head, and then wished he hadn't when a wave of nausea clenched his stomach and made his skin turn cold and clammy.

Stepping back to give Mike space to regain his equilibrium, Sherlock pulled out his mobile phone and unusually decided to ring Lestrade rather than text. As he waited for the Detective Inspector to answer he looked again at Stamford.

"Where's Molly?"

"Gone." The other man groaned. "He took her…"

"He who?...Ah, Lestrade, there's been an incident at the St Bart's mortuary." He spoke quickly, not giving the officer a chance to interrupt. "There's been a significant amount of mindless mess made, but more importantly the man who did it has taken Molly Hooper."

Securing a promise of immediate attendance at the hospital, Sherlock closed off the call and sent a rapid text to John.

'_I think the next move has been made. Molly taken. SH'_

As the text whisked away over the network Sherlock stared at the tarot card pinned to Molly lab coat, still hanging on the coat rack in her office.

The Ten of Cups – reversed.


	10. Caught in a Trap

John didn't know Molly very well, but despite this he was disturbed by the fact that Moriarty had targeted her. Forcing aside the jealous feeling that it was done to get Sherlocks attention, because Molly was enamoured of the enigmatic detective, John stared at the picture of the tarot card that had been left behind.

The Ten of Cups reversed; the picture caused him to smile a harsh little satisfied smile. If Moriarty thought Sherlock would be broken hearted over the loss of Molly Hooper he was far off his mark, because it was obvious to all except the woman herself that she was merely his means to an end….the smile faltered a little as the doctor recalled that his own overtures were met with a comprehensive rejection.

With a mental shake John pocketed his phone and trotted across Camden High Street, heading towards a little backstreet shop that looked as if it had stepped straight out of a Dickensian tale. The dark green paintwork was cracked and peeling, and the elaborate cream wording above the shops front window – Murther and Son, Plant and Herb Specialist – was now dirty and faded, but every other aspect of the place was just as John had remembered it.

Pushing open the door he listened as the sound of the bell echoed through the building, followed swiftly by the shuffling of slippered feet as Ruairi Murther made his way through from the back room.

"Hello Ru," John said quietly, "long time no see."

Blue eyes that had seen more than a hundred years and lived through several wars – both mortal and sorcerous – widened as they took in the sight of the blond man.

"John? Little John Watson?" There was still strength in that voice, and John smiled at the use of the affectionate moniker.

"Yeah, I didn't really grow much taller." He reached out and took the other man's hand. "How are you? I half expected to find you retired, and Padraig running the shop for you now."

A shadow passed over the old man's face.

"Padraig's no longer with us." Ruairi shook his head, long grey hair swinging lankly around his shoulders. "He and his son Ciaran were killed in a fire several years back."

"I'm sorry to hear that." John's face creased in a sympathetic frown. "So you are alone in the world now?"

"No, I have my great-grandson, Seamus. He's a little younger than you; I don't think you'd have seen him around the shop back then."

"But he helps you here?"

Ruairi's sharp eyes flicked from John's face to the floor, and then he gestured with an unsteady hand to the door.

"Lock that, put up the closed sign and come through to the back; I'll make us a cup of tea."

John did as he was asked, his heart and footsteps heavy as a cloak of dread enfolded him. Whatever Ruairi had to tell him couldn't be good or he would have spoken openly.

xXx

Sherlock knew that once Lestrade and his people arrived they would question his every move, so he hurried along to the haematology lab where he was able to persuade the supervisor that, for the sake of his marriage, it would be a good idea to run the tests on the three blood samples without delay.

Extracting a promise to get the DNA results fast tracked and should be ready within twenty four hours, and a full blood analysis within a couple of hours, Sherlock hurried back to the mortuary in time to greet the arriving police officers.

"What have you done this time, Freak?" Sally asked as her gaze swept across the mess in the room.

Mike Stamford, who was being helped away by a doctor stopped in his tracks.

"Sherlock wasn't here when all this happened." He sounded bewildered as he peered short-sightedly at dusky skinned officer. "Why should you think it was him?"

"It's wishful thinking Mike," Sherlock explained as he walked back into the room, careful not to disturb the scattered papers. "If she can prove it's my fault it will be the first and only time she's solved anything harder than the Daily Star crossword without help."

He carried on through to Molly's office, his eyes taking in everything about the room before making a closer examination of the Tarot card. Glancing again at John's brief explanation of its meaning, he waited for Lestrade to stop at his side.

"Where's John?" Greg asked, but Sherlock ignored his question in favour of pointing to the card.

"It a warning, a sign that the recipient is on the brink of losing something that is of great importance to them."

"So who is the recipient, Dr Hooper or you?" Greg rubbed a hand through his hair as he watched Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What the fuck is at stake here?"

"I'm assuming, as the card was left for me to find, that I am the one who has lost something, and it's not a great leap to the conclusion that whoever has taken Molly thinks that she is important to me."

"Yeah, poor bitch is suffering because the only person important to you is you, Holmes."

"Sally…" Looking over his shoulder Greg pinned his Sergeant with a furious glare. "Whatever your opinion I expect you to behave professionally."

"But Sir…."

Sherlock meanwhile had taken photographs of the card on his mobile, and was heading back out the door, smirking at Donovan as he passed.

"Sir!" Once more Sally appealed to her superior officer, but Greg was quietly fuming, hand on hip with his head bowed, massaging his temples in an effort to ease the headache building there.

"Leave it Sally, before you force me to pull you from the team and send you for training to reinforce your people skills."

"You wouldn't!"

"I'd have to, and I'm sure you could do without all the awkward questions that would be asked…."

"Is that a threat, Sir?" Donovan became defensive, pushing back her frizzy hair and trying to stare Lestrade down, but he stepped up into her personal space.

"Now look, I know the man winds you up, and let's face it, you have grounds for retaliation but look around you…" he gestured towards the several members of Pathology staff who were standing watching them. "It would only take one of those porters or lab assistants to report you and I would have no choice."

Greg stepped away, motioning for the forensics team to start cataloguing the clues, leaving Sally to follow in his wake as he went in search of Sherlock.

xXx

Moriarty's plans were coming together nicely. Jeff Hope had been despatched with precise instructions – the man had never let him down before and Jim saw no reason to think today would be any different. Sherlock Holmes was not as clever as he made out to be, if he was he would have seen the wisdom of joining forces when the option was offered. Now his minion lay in wait for the consulting detective to leave the latest scene of crime.

Next came his very fruitful discussion with Kitty Reilly. Her contacts within press circles, however lowly, provided the information he needed. He inevitably found the pay-off boring, but it was worth it to ensure the ridiculous woman's continued service. Maybe he should have been flattered that the woman was enamoured of him, believed herself in love with him, and he played the restrained lover for all he was worth to keep her in ignorance of the truth – that she would one day become a part of his menagerie, a willing participant under his command….

In all though there was some pleasure to be had. With Miss Reilly despatched back to her office with orders to dig up more information, he waited for Sebby to return with the third of his expected guests.

When Molly Hooper was escorted through the door of his parlour a small mewl of shock escaped her lips.

"Jim?"

Her voice was barely more than a squeak.

"That's right," Moriarty drawled, a charming smile stretched across his lips "It's me, Jim from IT…Hiii!" This last was said in a high pitch, accompanied by the waggling of his fingers as if in greeting.

"But what….? Why did your friend hit Mike and drag me out of my office? You could have called…"

"Would you have come?"

"Well….after work, probably…."

"Not good enough!" The sing-song pitch was falsely happy, and Moriarty smiled wider as Molly cringed away from him. "I needed you here now."

"Why?" Molly was desperate not to let Jim know how scared she was, but his next words disabused her of the belief that she was succeeding.

"Because, Molly Mouse, I have a use for you – I had thought that kidnapping you would make your friend Sherlock Holmes unhappy, upset even, but it appears I may have been mistaken." He waived her to a chair. "Still no matter, I have a my plan B, in which you play a prominent role my dear."

"H…how? I mean…I don't understand…."

"So many questions my dear, yet so little time for me to answer you." Moriarty looked up as an older woman slipped in through the door, sliding across the room sure footed and sultry despite her advancing years. "Ahhh, you've arrived just in time mother. Take miss Molly Mouse downstairs and see that she's secure. I'll have need of her later."

"Stop it!" Molly leapt to her feet in defiance. "Stop calling me that!"

But Moriarty just laughed as the old woman grabbed Molly with surprisingly strong hands, and with assistance from a dark suited minion dragged her away, his voice calling her that awful name echoing through the halls behind her.

And now, with Molly secure and Hope and Reilly back in place, Moriarty sat statue still in a dark and chilly store room, listening and waiting, biding his time, his fingers absently teasing the silky hairs of his tiger's ears.

xXx

Storming out of Haematology Sherlock strode down the corridor back towards the Mortuary, his fingers moving fast and furiously over his mobile phone keyboard.

"_The results will take longer than expected, they have had a problem with their computers. See you back at Baker Street to discuss Molly's kidnap. SH."_

Seeing Lestrade and Donovan standing outside in the corridor while the forensics team collected evidence, he marched up to the Detective Inspector and demanded

"Let me know as soon as the kidnapper makes contact, and email me your reports."

"Sorry? No please? Or thank you?" Greg was close to boiling point. "Sherlock this is my investigation, even if you were the one to discover this particular crime scene."

"They are all linked together, the cards…."

"I know." Taking a breath, Greg lowered his voice. "I know they're linked, and I'm also aware that they seem to be aimed at you in some way. Where's John?"

"What does it matter where John is? We're not glued together you know."

There was a choked noise as Sally swallowed a laugh. Greg glared.

"Generally he hovers whenever you're threatened…"

"I'm not the one being threatened….."

Greg raised an eyebrow.

"Aren't you?"

In the silence that followed Sherlock spun on his heel and walk swiftly from the building, one hand reaching for his mobile, the other raised to hail a cab before he had even reached the kerbside.

xXx

In the tiny back room of the shop John and Ruairi sat at the table in front of a three bar electric fire, staring into their tea.

"My great-grandson stayed with his mother after the fire," Ruairi explained. "At first we had thought they too had perished, but only the two bodies were found. Maire had taken the boy out to the park and had locked the door behind her out of habit – my boys couldn't get out, and the Fire Brigade were delayed getting in…."

"Locked the door?" John was horrified. "But why would she do that?"

Ruairi shook his head sadly.

"It was one of those stupid doors that wasn't secure when you closed it unless you locked it with your key." He seemed to stare off into the past. "Maire wasn't used to having Ciaran at home during the daytime, and so she made their home secure…..Those kind of locks have been made illegal now."

"Yeah, I seem to recall something about them, I didn't know it was your son though Ru, I'm so sorry."

While he spoke John's phone message alert sounded, and he glanced quickly at it, noting the message and deleting it as had become his habit since this thing with Moriarty had started had started.

Looking back up at his old friend he saw tears shining in the old man's eyes.

"I'm sorry too John, so, so sorry."

"Wha…."

From a door on the far side of the room stepped a slim, dapper looking young man, a few years younger than John, with dark, almost black eyes.

"Hello Johnny." He said in a sing-song voice. "I see great grandpappy has been entertaining you…"

"Who the hell are you?"

"Oh surely you haven't forgotten already? I'm Seamus, Ruairi's great grandson, although I prefer the Anglicised version of my name…..attracts less attention."

John swallowed, suddenly knowing without being told just who this was.

The man read recognition and smiled.

"That's right Johnny boy – it's Jim, Jim Moriarty…."

"He took his mother's name…" Old Ruairi whispered. "I'm sorry John."

"That okay Ru, not your fault." John rose to his feet and squared up to Moriarty.

"Oh I wouldn't do that Johnny, really I wouldn't."

"No, but then you're not a soldier." John kept his eyes fixed on the other man, waiting for him to make the first move.

And make the move he did, but it wasn't the move that John anticipated. He simply stepped to one side of the door and with a flick of his fingers called through reinforcements.

If the room had seemed small before it was positively claustrophobic now, as a large, golden eyed Bengal Tiger slunk through to stand at Moriarty's side.

"I'd tell you to run Johnny boy, it would make Sebby's day, but I need you alive for a little while longer."

John didn't hear the rush of air from the pistol; he only felt the sting as the tranquiliser dart buried itself just below his collarbone….just before everything went black.


	11. Two out of Three

Five minutes into the journey, Sherlock raised his head from perusal of his mobile phone to see that they were heading in entirely the wrong direction.

"I said Baker Street." He called through to the driver, tapping on the glass privacy screen, but the driver simply flicked him a glance in the rear view mirror then ignored him.

Red lights on the doors indicated that they were locked, but instead of automatically unlocking whenever the vehicle stopped at traffic lights they remained stubbornly locked tight.

Even banging on the windows had no effect, they didn't open, and no one seemed to hear or see him. Behind the privacy screen Jeff Hope just smiled.

"Sit back and relax, Mr Holmes. I'm taking to you meet Mr Moriarty." He spoke into a small radio microphone that hung down from the roof of the cab.

"I have no wish to see Mr Moriarty." Sherlock ground out through gritted teeth.

"Maybe, maybe not." The driver seemed singularly unconcerned. "But he would like to see you, and to ensure you don't try to run before he gets to see you I was to tell you that he has a couple of people there who're dying to see you…."

xXx

In the cold basement room of Ruairi Murther's shop John groaned as consciousness came rushing back, and with it the pain of having lain awkwardly on the damp uneven floor.

"John? John…." Molly leaned forward and put a hand on his arm as she saw awareness returning.

"Moll?" John's mouth felt like the bottom of a budgie cage and he said as much, making Molly smile until she remembered their predicament.

Moving stiffly, John sat up and looked around. A bundle of rags caught his eye and he started to edge towards it but a sharp cry from Molly stopped him.

"No, John. He's dead."

"He….?" John turned and looked at the Pathologist, and then back at the shapeless heap. "Ru? Ruairi?"

A sob caught at the back of his throat as he scrambled across to the limp and torn remains of his old friend.

"What did he do to you Ru?" With gentle hands John rolled his friend onto his back, feeling the cold tacky blood that soaked the ragged edges of the dead man's clothes.

"It…..it was the tiger." Molly sat back against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest.

"I saw it."

"He changed…..he was a man when he took me from the lab….but as they dragged me in to…he changed…I heard…"

"Stop now." John commanded as Molly's voice rose hysterically. "Try to think of something else."

Wiping his hands on his jeans John moved away from the dead body.

"We need to work out a way out of here…."

"They've got Sherlock…."

"What?"

John gripped Molly's shoulders painfully hard.

"How do you know?"

Molly flinched, and John released her, a little shamefaced.

"Sorry."

The pathologist rubbed at her arms and shook her head.

" 'S okay." She said a little shakily. "I heard them talking. Jim has a cab driver that he sent to pick him up, he wouldn't know until it was too late that the driver had been sent to bring him here."

"Fuck!" Lashing out with his fist John punched the wall, then sucked in a calming breath and forced a stiff little smile out to reassure Molly. "Okay, we need to keep alert, and if we have a chance to run we take it."

"What if we can't both get away?"

"Then I'll make sure you do Moll – you run, and you get word to Lestrade." His smile became genuine. "Don't worry, we'll manage."

xXx

At about the same time John was punching the wall in the cellar, Sherlock was being escorted into a house a short distance away.

Moriarty was sitting in his favourite chair, his tiger's head resting on his crossed legs, and he was absent-mindedly running his fingers through the thick luxurious fur across its shoulders.

Determined not to let memories of just what this man could do cloud his thought processes, Sherlock stood tall, disdaining to look at short, grubby looking taxi driver that was using a cattle prod of all things to guide him through from the enclosed rear yard where they had alighted from the cab.

"Hope, must you be so crude? A cattle prod? He's now a stray cow!" The Irishman giggled, a high pitched, girlish sound that had the tiger flattening its ears against its head.

"Yeah well, he's bigger than me, and younger, and I didn't fancy having to tell you I'd lost 'im." Hope said honestly.

"No," Moriarty agreed, sobering a little. "I wouldn't want to give me that news either."

He waved the old man away.

"Go back to work, I'll call you when we're ready to….. well, when we're ready."

Hope smiled, backing out of the room as if from royalty.

"I love it when my people give me the respect I deserve."

"You have to earn respect Moriarty, not frighten or bribe in order to…."

"No, I _command_ it!" the Irishman hissed, all trace of humour wiped from his face leaving behind a vicious sneer. "And those who disobey are made to suffer – but you know that don't you? You suffer, even if you have found a way to control it, you cannot stop it."

Standing, he stepped up to the taller man and ran a finger softly down his face, raising an eyebrow as the muscle in Sherlock's cheek twitched at the touch.

"Now tell me Sherlock Holmes, what are you trying to do? Are you trying to stop me? Trying to find a way to make it all go away?" Moriarty's harsh laugh echoed around the other man's head, making him screw up his eyes and try to move away, but the Mage was having none of it. "Stay!"

Sherlock froze, the only voluntary movement he was able to make involved breathing and the feeling terrified him.

Leaving him rooted to the spot, Moriarty turned his attention to the Tiger.

"Sebby dear, go find Mother." He opened the door. "Oh and Sebby? I need you on two feet, not four."

A soft growl was the only answer he received as the elegant cat slunk out of the room.

xXx

At the sound of the key in the lock John swiftly moved across the room to stand beside the door, hoping to have the chance to grab and disarm whoever had come for them, but as the door swung open he was disappointed to hear his name called.

"John Watson, stand where we can see you please or you will be made to regret your foolishness every time you look at Miss Hooper."

John didn't recognise the voice, but whoever he was he sounded certain of his facts. Moving around the wall, not to put himself within grabbing distance of the enemy, he finally joined Molly against the far wall, the body of his old friend between them and the door.

"Good." Sebastian stepped through the door, a silenced gun held confidently in his hand, a large hunting knife in a sheath on his belt. "Mr Moriarty would like you to join him and his guest in the main house."

Staying clear of Sebby's weapon, Maire Moriarty slipped into the room and grasped Molly's arm.

"Now," she said, "you have a choice. We can walk nicely to the house, or we can incapacitate you and drag you across the gardens."

Molly opened her mouth to defy them to do their worst but John reached over and squeezed her hand. She shut her mouth and waited.

"Lead on." He said quietly.

Maire kept hold of the pathologist's arm, leaning on her as if she needed the support. John let them move ahead of him, and Sebastian brought up the rear, close enough to prod the doctor in the back with the silencer muzzle while keeping it hidden from passers-by.

In silence they walked, down along the passageway between Ruairi's shop and its neighbour, and out onto the main thoroughfare, looking for all the world as if they were just strolling home.

As they reached the street corner John coughed, a noise sounding suspiciously like '_Now_' and Molly leapt into action, shoving the old woman to the floor as hard as she could and taking off like a greyhound out of the traps. Never before had she been so grateful that the Lab insisted on all staff wearing sensible clothes, and particularly sensible shoes!

Meanwhile John had turned and pushed the gun away, hearing the bullet ricochet off the tarmac before being backhanded across the temple with the butt. Stunned and wobbly, John found himself being dragged the rest of the way to the house while Moriarty's mother limped behind, and he couldn't control the smile that tugged at his lips as he noted that Molly had got away.

xXx

"Miss Hooper?" Lestrade recognised her voice, but had never heard her sounding so shaken and tearful. "Thank God! Where are you? We've been looking…."

"Mr Lestrade please, you have to just listen….."

Molly repeated everything that John had told her to say, from the kidnapping to the escape.

"So, is John with you?" Greg asked, realising as he did that John wouldn't have made the young pathologist make this call if he was.

"No, but there is more he needs me to tell you – only you inspector. Where can we meet that's safe and unwatched?"

The grey haired man blew out a gusty breath, both confused and worried.

"Safe? You can't come to the Yard?"

"I'm sure they'll expect me to go there – is there nowhere else?"

"Okay, tell me where you are, I'll pick you up and we'll find somewhere where you can safely stay."

Half an hour later they were in Lestrade's car, heading towards Battersea.

"I'm afraid my flat's nothing special," he apologised as he negotiated the traffic. "Not the tidiest either."

Molly stifled a nervous giggle.

"That's okay….."

"You see I…..."

They both stopped speaking.

Greg chuckled.

"Go on." He said.

"Tidy doesn't matter Mr Lestrade, safe does." Molly said quietly as the car pulled into the parking area behind the drab sixties tenement block.

Blushing a little in embarrassment Greg led her into the cosy but obviously 'batchelor' flat. Hurrying around he picked up the detritus of his everyday life and shoved it out of sight in his bedroom as Molly wandered into the living room.

"Coffee?"

"Do you have decaf?" Molly looked over her shoulder at the detective.

" 'Fraid not, not in my line of business – coffee to wake up, beer to relax." He smiled disarmingly, and Molly couldn't help but return the smile.

"Okay, maybe just a weak one then." She waited until he had made their drinks and they were sitting either side of the coffee table, and then she began to tell him a story more suited to a horror novel.

To give Lestrade his due he didn't move, didn't exclaim at the impossibility of it, and when she had finished he didn't immediately declare her insane.

Looking up through her lashes Molly waited for him to accuse her of wasting his time, but instead he just walked out to the kitchen and made himself another coffee.

The silence grew almost claustrophobic before he finally spoke.

"I take it John hasn't told you about any of the other stuff that has happened recently?"

"Other stuff?" Molly frowned.

"Ah, obviously not." Running a hand through his hair Greg flopped back in his chair. "There have been several odd incidents, dead birds delivered to the Yard for Sherlock, bodies and kidnappings, and every time a Tarot card was left or in the case of the dead bird was inlaid in the lid of the box it came in."

Swallowing down his drink, he looked around a little distractedly.

"I have a spare room if you'd like to stay here – no strings, and it's nothing spectacular, but it's safe. I don't believe they'll come looking for you here."

"Mr Lestrade…."

"It's Greg."

"Greg, thank you, but are you sure? I mean, if they do come looking…."

"This isn't exactly the easiest place to find, you'll be fine here." He led the way to a neatly decorated room with a single bed, bedside table, wardrobe and dressing table. "Not much, but you're welcome to it."

xXx

John landed on the floor at Moriarty's feet, barely conscious, flung through the door by a very angry Sebastian.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, the cold fear that had been clawing at him since the tiger had left to fetch his flatmate from wherever he was being held ratcheted up several notches, and he could feel the familiar itch and burn under his skin .

Moriarty looked at him, then at the two people standing in the doorway.

"I'm sorry son," his mother bleated, hanging her head. "The girl got away."

"_What_?" Eyes blazing Moriarty slapped the elderly woman. "You stupid bitch! How many times have I told you she was important to my plans? Where did she go?"

"I don't know….."

Turning from the whimpering woman Jim looked at Sebby. The golden eyed man shrugged.

"I suppose you helped her." An elegant handmade shoe kicked John in the ribs.

"Stop!" Sherlock shouted, his breath becoming tight in his chest, worsening at his enemy's next words.

"Why, is he important to you? Oh he is! How sweet" a cruel smile crossed Moriarty's face. "What a shame Molly Mouse got away, still, I think we'll have more fun with little Johnny here. I want to know why he was so friendly with Grandpappy, and where he could fit in with my plans. Sebby….."

Sebastian was already taking his clothing off, dropping to a crouch, his metamorphosis already sparking through his limbs.

Gasping for air and ripping at his clothes, a harsh cry broke from Sherlock's throat, and as John and Moriarty watched – John horrified, Moriarty with morbid fascination – Sherlock suffered his second uncontrolled event in less than a week, twisting through the haze of heat and the remaining clothes that fell loosely from his shrinking frame, until with an anguished screech he flew through the door and out, to fresh air and to freedom.


	12. Fight or Flight

**Sorry for the delay in publishing this chapter, and the shortness of it - I would have made it longer, but this seemed the right place to stop.  
Enjoy!**

Moriarty turned with a sneer and took in the horrified expression on John's face.

"Dear me! Didn't your flatmate tell you the whole truth about himself? Oh that _is_ precious…."

"What?" John thought quickly, realising they still had an advantage if he played along with this madman. "What do you mean the _whole_ truth?"

The other man giggled.

"Why, that darling Sherlock isn't what you think he is." Moriarty closed the distance between them. "Such a shame, don't you think? All that lean athleticism and sex appeal, and he's more crow than man."

Schooling his features into a look of confusion, John stared dumbly at his old friend's great grandson.

"What do you mean….?"

"Oh Johnny, Johnny, can't you see it? How long have you lived with him? And you haven't been attracted to him the whole time?"

"He's not interested."

"Awww, did he turn you down? Yes, I can see he did, but did he tell you why? No?" Moriarty gave a delighted laugh. "No, I could see by your face that you had no idea that your flatmate was really a big, black bird!"

Standing at his side, the tiger let out a rumbling growl, his head turned towards the door.

"What now Sebby?"

Another growl, this time a bit louder as he paced around, obviously disturbed by something that was going on outside.

Moriarty turned away from John and listened. In the distance the sound of sirens drew closer, stopping in a nearby street.

"Mother, go and see what's happening," the Irishman sneered over his shoulder at the old woman. "And try not to mess up this time."

Maire nodded, slipping past the still growling tiger and out of the door.

Turning his attention back to John Moriarty smiled a cold smile.

"Now Johnny boy, what shall we do while we wait?"

xXx

Sally Donovan led the officers down the passageway, and in through the unlocked back door of Murther and Son, Plant and Herb Specialist, pulling on latex gloves as they went. None of them noticed the lady who, seeing them entering the back of the shop, pulled an old mobile out of her pocket and made a call to her son.

Shining her torch around she delegated search areas, and taking a seasoned Detective Constable with her moved down towards the basement, and the anticipated dead body.

"How come the DI isn't with us?" DC Brett asked as he followed Sally through the door leading to the basement room.

"He's with his informant," she replied as she moved stealthily forward, picking up the bloody remains in the beam of her torch. "Here it is – the body he said would be here"

Both officers moved forward, Brett taking Sally's torch and aiming both beams, leaving her hands free to gently check the dead man, hoping always that the informant might have been mistaken, but with a shake of her head she confirmed the original diagnosis.

"Been dead some time." Sally stepped back and took back her torch. "Get forensics here, and cordon off the shop – it's now a crime scene."

"Granddad? Are you down here Granddad?"

The voice came from the stairwell, and the two police officers looked at each other, stunned.

Before either could move an older lady stepped through the door, and spotting Donovan and Brett, screamed.

Thinking quickly, Sally pulled out her warrant card and held it up for the woman to see.

"We're police." She said clearly. "How did you get in here?"

"I came looking for Granddad," the woman replied shakily looking past them at the sinister pile on the floor. "Is that him? Granddad? Granddad!" her cry became a wail once more, and Brett grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to turn her around and lead her out, but she pulled free and flung herself at the dead man.

"Granddad!" she cried again. "What have they done to you?"

"Who?" Sally asked, helping Brett to lift her away from the body. "Who do you think did this?"

"That Sherlock Holmes." Maire Moriarty Murther sobbed. "Him and his friend, John Watson."

xXx

Wearing one of Greg's old shirts, Molly pushed her clothes into the washing machine and set it going – she needed to get the smell of blood and damp cellars out of her nostrils and out of them.

The sound of a key in the latch made her look up with a smile, it was only Greg returning from the shop with some basic food supplies and a jar of decaf coffee just for her.

"Oh! Er… sorry…" Greg blushed and looked away. "Sorry…"

"It's alright," Molly grinned. "I hope you don't mind me filching this shirt – it was in a cupboard in the spare room….."

"Yeah, yeah." Sounding flustered Greg tried to put the shopping away with his eyes screwed tightly shut. "Those are only old work-shirts that I put aside for decorating…um….eventually."

Molly giggled.

"For goodness sake open your eyes! You'll do yourself an injury if you don't look out!" She grinned as he peeked at her. "See? The shirt would make a decent length dress…."

Still blushing Greg grinned ruefully back.

"I'm sorry – I didn't think about getting spare clothes for you."

Her grin fading, Molly's shoulders slumped.

"I'm sure they'll be watching my flat – I can't imagine they don't know where I live." She sighed.

Forgetting his embarrassment, Greg closed the distance between them and pulled the pathologist into his arms.

"Look, don't worry okay? I'll get one of my officers to pick up some stuff for you, just make a list of what you need to last, say, a week – that'll give us some thinking room…." And giving her another quick squeeze he returned to putting the food away.

The silence stretched a little uncomfortably, Greg concentrating hard on rearranging the food shelves, Molly on a thread that was trailing from the frayed cuff of her filched shirt.

"I'll cook…" She started, but the sound of a text alert on Greg's phone interrupted her.

'_Need to speak to you urgently – SD'_

Greg groaned and showed Molly the text.

"What does it mean?"

"I assume she's found the old boy's body." Greg frowned at the message again. "But she knew he'd be there – so the question is, what could be so urgent?"

He dashed off a reply, waited for Sally's agreement, then pulled a notepad from his jacket pocket.

"Jot down clothes sizes and a list of what you need, I'll get that sorted while I'm out."

xXx

Sally chewed her nails.

She'd left Brett to supervise the forensic team, with strict instruction not to say a word about the old lady and her accusation. As much as she disliked Holmes, and by extension Watson, she had been aware of the awful things that had been going on recently, and knowing that this was almost certainly linked meant she was unsure how to deal with this latest piece of news.

So Sally sat in Lestrade's office with the initial crime scene photographs, a dozen or so prints spread across the hastily cleared desk top.

The pathetic bundle of rags, the last remains of Ruairi Murther looked grotesque in their technicolour glory, the obvious slashing to the body savage and unnecessary. Closer inspection showed a strange uniformity to the injuries, and a familiarity that she just couldn't put her finger on.

"I take it the body was there?" Greg's voice sounded loud in the hushed room.

Sally pushed a photograph towards him.

"You knew it would be like this?"

Lestrade looked down, his fingers hovering over the deep incisions in the old man's chest.

"I was told…."

"Your informant?"

At that Greg raised his eyes to meet those of his sergeant.

"The less I tell you about my informant, the safer she is."

But he should have known better than to underestimate Sally Donovan. She met his bland stare and dropped her voice to little more than a whisper.

"You have Molly safe then?"

Greg's eyes widened.

"How….? No, don't say it." He rubbed his neck and looked back at the picture. "Sorry. Molly is in a safe place, she and John worked out an escape plan, but it was almost certain that only one of them would get away."

"Sounds like Watson."

"Look, there's something I need you to do for me – for Molly actually." He blushed, memories of Molly wearing just his old shirt.

Looking up he noticed Sally watching him closely, but while she may have guessed the reason for the heat in his cheeks she declined to comment as she waited for him to continue.

"Molly can't go back to her flat," Greg fumbled as he pulled his notepad from his pocket, nearly dropping it. "She needs clothes, could you arrange for a female officer to pick these up for her?" he tore out the page with Molly's shopping list and handed it over.

Sally read it through.

"I'll do it." She said quietly. "The fewer people know that you're in contact with her the better."

"Thanks Sal."

"So, what is it about these injuries?"

Greg looked again at the photographs, sliding into his chair and leaning his elbows on his desk.

"I didn't really believe…." Screwing up his eyes he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Didn't believe what?"

"Molly." he sighed. "She said there was a tiger…."

"Bloody hell! Someone's keeping tigers in London?"

"Oh, you haven't heard the best bit – this tiger turns into a man!" he turned the picture so that Sally had a clearer view. "These injuries were caused, if Molly is correct, by a Bengal tiger that can transform itself into a human being."

xXx

In the dusk darkened skies over Regent's Park, a solitary dark shape wheeled and soared, catching the breeze and riding it, its raucous cries echoing through the slowly emptying beauty spot, carrying on the wind, filling the ears of those last few stragglers making their way home.

On a bench sheltered by hedgerows, and shaded by a cluster of copper beeches Jamie Saxon, a fourteen year old public schoolboy was sitting playing with the spoils of his raid on his ever-absent father's study.

It never once occurred to him to be thankful that his father was away on yet another business trip, or for the fact that the au pair and housekeeper both gave him far too much leeway for being an only child of a broken family.

Were they less soft-hearted, then his rustication for the remainder of the term would have been brought to his father's notice, and the devastating chain of events that were slowly moving to their zenith may have been stayed, but like over-fond maiden aunts they tutted, and smiled, and promised to stand between Jamie and his father's eventual wrath.

So in his father's absence Jamie wandered through the house, exploring rooms that were normally out of bounds, searching dusty corners and cupboards that he was generally forbidden access to, and now here he was, sitting in the fading light in Regent's Park loading and unloading his father's pump action air rifle.

The cry of the raven caught Jamie's attention, and he stopped what he was doing to watch the mesmerising display of grace and dark beauty. There was still just enough light to catch undulating movement of its wings and Jamie, wanting to capture that magnificent creature, quickly reloaded the rifle and pumped it up until it was at full power. Taking aim and imitating every American special ops film he had ever seen, Jamie followed the flight of the raven, keeping it in his sights, and slowly, gently, he squeezed the trigger.


	13. Revelations and Shocks

John collapsed, naked humiliated and exhausted, onto the floor of the small back room. He was cut and bleeding from Moriarty's idea of suitable entertainment to pass the time, forcing him to strip (preferable to the leering suggestion that Maire or Sebastian could take his clothes off for him) and making him dodge the flying glasses and bottles that were hurled at him by invisible hands; and now he was chained to a solid iron blocker tie ring – an antique from one of the many derelict stable mews in the area - and the manacle around his wrist was far tighter than it needed to be.

The Irishman had laughed hysterically at his childish game, but continued nonetheless, revelling in the spilling of John's blood every time he misjudged a missile, but very soon he tired of the game. Not soon enough for John's liking, but at least he felt marginally safer, if only for a short while.

Now back on two legs Sebastian Moran broke the doom-laden silence in the room as he dropped the prisoner's clothes in the corner furthest away from him, and smiled a decidedly feral smile.

"Don't get cold now," he smirked. "My master wouldn't like it if you were to freeze to death…"

Determined not to give either of them the pleasure of having a reason to hurt him again, John kept his eyes lowered and his mouth shut – he was thinking furiously about how he could get out of this situation. And in the back of his mind he was also considering what had happened to his friend. Something had triggered a change – for the second time since John had learned of the curse – and it didn't look as smooth and controlled as the time he had watched over Sherlock's transformation. It was more painful, that much was obvious, but more than that there was an underlying feeling that there was an obvious connection between the two incidents, if only he could see it.

A shadow passed over him, and John saw a pair of army boots move into his line of sight. Moran stopped in front of him and waited…waited for John to look up.

It was a mistake, John knew it the minute his eyes met those cold, golden orbs. With a gleeful smile Moran pulled back his foot and kicked John's left shoulder, the already inflamed and barely healed flesh exploding in a mess of blood and pain – and the ex-soldier screamed in agony.

Laughing, Sebastian stood over him for a few moments more, then turned and slowly walked out.

xXx

Sally sat, her mind still reeling over the news that there was some kind of weird, shape-shifting man/tiger on the loose around London. Part of her wanted to laugh and say that Miss Hooper had been suffering from shock, but she knew her boss well enough to know he would have thoroughly interrogated the information he was given – and realistically, Molly Hooper didn't strike Sally as having the kind of imagination that brought that sort of image to the fore.

"Sal? You okay?"

Greg's words made her flinch slightly. It was obvious that this wasn't the first time he had called her name.

"Yes, sorry. Miles away…"

"I said was there anything other than the state of the body and the injuries that bothered you? Your text did say urgent."

Staring blankly at him for a few seconds, Sally suddenly remembered what it was that she needed to tell him. She picked up the photograph of the dead man and held it up.

"The dead man's granddaughter turned up while we were there, looking for him. She says..."

Greg raised his eyebrows and waited.

"She says that Holmes and Watson did this, caused these injuries and killed her grandfather. But," she frowned in confusion. "surely Sherlock can't turn into a tiger?"

Choking back a laugh, Greg said "He can no more turn into a tiger than he can fly! And anyway, we all know Molly dotes on him, she wouldn't have said anything at all about man-tigers if he was the man in question."

For a moment Sally considered this, and then sighed.

"I wonder what the old man wanted with Sherlock and John then, for them to have been with him, and for John to have still been there after the old man died."

Greg shrugged, getting slowly to his feet and dragging on his overcoat.

"I'll call round to Baker Street before I head home, it might be that he doesn't realise John is in trouble, and I don't want him haring off without me, just in case he gets into more trouble."

"Home?" The Detective Sergeant glanced back at the window, seeing the light rapidly fading. "Shit! I won't be able to…" her voice trailed off as she waved Molly's list vaguely.

"That's okay, pick them up in the morning on your way into the office, I'll make sure she gets them."

Walking side by side they headed to the lifts, riding down together to the underground car park. With a nod and a wave Greg climbed into his car and pulled out into the evening gloom.

xXx

Raising his hand to the knocker of 221B Greg startled in surprise as it was flung open before he could even touch the brass door furniture.

"Oh Inspector!" Mrs Hudson was flushed and flustered. "I'm so glad you're here, come in." She reached out and dragged him across the threshold.

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Oh such wicked goings on." She wittered as she pulled him into her flat, dragging him through to the living room where Sherlock sat in an armchair in front of the fire, naked but for a blanket and holding himself as is he was in pain.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade was feeling decidedly out of his depth.

"I found him in the garden, naked and bleeding." Pulling back a corner of the blanket Mrs Hudson revealed a spread of .22 air rifle pellet wounds across the front of his shoulder and upper arm. One had hit his neck, but fortunately seemed to have missed the carotid artery.

"Jesus Sherlock! What happened?"

The younger man turned dazed and tired eyes towards him, and Greg was shocked at the emptiness in them.

"Moriarty." Sherlock's voice was hoarse, cracking as if from lack of use. Only he knew it was caused by his cries of terror and helplessness as he flew over London.

"Who's Moriarty? And how come you haven't got any clothes on? Is Moriarty in your flat?""

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder, sighed and shook his head.

"Moriarty is not in my flat. I escaped from him and …" He paused, huffing out a breath a closing his eyes. "He was holding John and me prisoner, and was foolish enough to think if he took my clothes that I wouldn't try to escape." Keeping it as close to the truth as possible, Sherlock hoped that Lestrade wouldn't question it too deeply.

"Molly didn't say anything about you being there."

"Molly? You have her safe?"

"Apparently she and John hatched a plan so that at least one of them could escape, but if you and John…"

"He was being held somewhere else when Moriarty's tame cab driver kidnapped me – I realised that Molly had been with him, and that she's managed to get away, Moriarty thought that John had helped her."

"Apparently they planned it together." Greg realised that they were getting off topic. "So who is he, this Moriarty bloke?"

"He's a criminal, I've known about him for years." Pale eyes flicked up to meet hazel ones. "And before you ask, no, he's never done anything that we can pin on him except at the very beginning of his career, when he murdered Carl Powers."

Lestrade frowned.

"Carl Powers? Who's he?"

"School champion swimmer, drowned while competing in an inter-schools gala."

"When? I don't remember hearing anything about this."

"Years ago, nineteen eighty nine. He came from Brighton, had some kind of fit in the swimming pool and died. His shoes were missing – I remember trying to get the police to understand that everything the papers had reported about the boy pointed to the fact that he would never have let them go, I told them it was more than just a tragic accident…" his voice trailed off as he took in Greg's stunned expression.

"How old were you?"

"I started young." Was all the answer he would give, his face and voice taking on a petulant edge.

Biting back a sarcastic remark, Greg sat down opposite the younger man.

"Look, we need to get you to hospital to get this sorted out." he said finally, waving a hand at the still oozing injuries.

"No." abruptly Sherlock stood up, clutching the blanket around him. "We need to find John."

"You know where he is?"

Sherlock didn't answer the question he just headed towards the door. "I'm going to get dressed."

As he shuffled past Mrs Hudson, she and the Detective Inspector exchanged a puzzled glance, and the elderly lady just stood aside as he followed her tenant up to his flat, his voice drifting back down to her as he went.

"But really, how _did_ you get home without any clothes on…."

She didn't hear Sherlock's response and maybe, she thought, that was just as well – after all, finding a young man naked in the garden, at her age, was really not good for the heart.

xXx

Consciousness came back to John slowly, and with it the dull throbbing ache of his shoulder making its displeasure at being abused known. He was cold, and that just added to his overall misery, until he remembered that his clothes had been thrown into the corner of the room.

By means of him lying stretched out on the floor, John had managed to snag his jeans and shirt with his toes and gradually pull them towards himself. His underwear and jumper had fallen out of his reach, but this was better than nothing and so he dressed himself as best he could.

His injured shoulder made manoeuvring difficult but nevertheless he managed to pull the jeans on and carefully did them up. He grimaced. He'd need to remember that he had nothing underneath when he next undid the zip – the thought of the damage he could do made him smile mirthlessly and his eyes water. The shirt was more problematic however, as he could only get one arm in. This he did, feeling relieved that his newly opened scar would at least be covered, and with a little bit of wriggling about he was able to drape the rest of it over his bare shoulder, covering his back even if it was a little draughty.

Now that he was a little more comfortable, John then set his mind to the puzzle of Sherlock's transformations. He had watched Sherlock transform at the other man's behest, and the movement was smooth, quick and seemingly painless, yet when he compared it to what had happened up in that room with Moriarty it was obvious that when uncontrolled, the transformations were far more traumatic.

He frowned. There was more to it that a need to get away, of that he was sure, because Sherlock and he were a team, and without a firm plan neither would have left the other behind. Settling himself as comfortably as he could, John turned his mind to examining everything that happened both today and the day he had first lost his hard won control – there had to be a connection.

xXx

Greg put his phone away. Molly had been very understanding about him not making it home tonight, assuring him that she would lock the door, help herself to food and make herself comfortable. Puffing his cheeks out he blew a harsh breath, and turned to look at the now clothed consulting detective.

"Okay, so what now?" he asked, and watched a small frown crease the younger man's brow.

"We go, swiftly and quietly, back to Camden, I'm certain that I know where Moriarty is and by extension where John is being kept."

"I thought you were too busy dodging CCTV cameras and pedestrian traffic to take any notice of the route you took home?"

"Doesn't mean I didn't know where I was!"

"Okay, but when we get John out of wherever this Moriarty character has him, I want the truth out of you." Lestrade's tone brooked no argument. "I didn't fall off last year's Christmas tree, so please don't treat me as if I'm an idiot."

Ignoring the older man's words Sherlock looked around in frustration, wincing as his shirt twisted tight against the makeshift bandages Lestrade had fixed over his injuries. With a hiss of disgust he remembered that his scarf and Belstaff were still in Moriarty's hideout, so he resigned himself to pulling on his jacket – not an ideal option as his suits tended to be tailored to fit snugly while not restricting movement, tailoring that didn't make allowances for extra wrappings. Easing his arms into the tight material he glanced at the Detective Inspector.

"Did you believe Molly?" he asked curiously. "About the tiger?"

"Strangely enough, yes."

"Good." Sherlock reached into a drawer and pulled out John's service weapon. "Then you won't mind if I take this along with me."

Greg's eyes widened comically.

"Is that legal?"

Shrugging his uninjured shoulder, Sherlock pulled a face.

"I assume as it's army issue then the army know John has it – they're funny about that sort of thing generally don't you know."

"Oi, don't be bloody snotty. Frankly it was just a question – I don't really care so long as the only thing you shoot is a tiger on the loose in London – nothing and no-one else, is that clear?"

"Clear Inspector, now," Sherlock looked around the room one last time. "Shall we go?"


	14. Trust Issues

**My friends, I apologise for making you wait so long for this update - health issues and holidays managed to get in the way of writing, but I'm back now - and almost 100% fit, so without further ado... I hope you enjoy :D**

"Are you sure this is the right place?" Greg peered out through the windscreen of his car. "It just looks like a normal, rundown street."

Sherlock glared sideways at him

"Okay, okay. What now?"

"We have to find a way in to the place without alerting Moriarty." From his pocket Sherlock pulled a set of lock picks.

Greg rubbed both hands over his face and groaned.

"I didn't hear that, and I sure as fuck didn't see _them_."

Easing out of the car Sherlock did nothing to hide his smirk. "These are my spares." He muttered more to himself than to Lestrade as he slipped along the street towards the now closed front door of the house where Moriarty's cabby had delivered him.

"I wish I knew where they were, where they have John."

"Well you can't just walk up to the door, knock and ask them can you?"

Sherlock's eyes widened and he turned to look at the Detective Inspector.

"I can't…" he smiled wolfishly "…but you can!"

"But… I… What?" Greg spluttered.

"Oh you know looking for Aunty Mable, thought she lived here. Or as a policeman checking that a report of a disturbance, so sorry – must just simply be a misunderstanding." He rubbed his hands, warming to his theme. "And while you keep them busy I'll slip around the back and find John."

"Now hold on…"

"Come on! Can you think of a better way to do this?"

Greg stared at him.

"If I wasn't hoping to get the truth out of you about this whole bloody escapade I'd insist on waiting until we had a team of officers and armed back up." He said. "As it is, I've let you come armed and in possession of housebreaking tools – this is my job on the line here if it ever gets out."

Sherlock heard capitulation in the other man's voice and at once he became more business-like.

"It won't get out Lestrade." He promised. "Now, you go and knock. I'll stay out of sight until we see who opens the door to you, then I'll go looking for John, that way I can be prepared for whoever remains inside."

Schooling his features to show only the concern expected of a police officer investigating a disturbance Greg approached the front door.

From the shadows at the corner of the street Sherlock watched, his ears attuned to the sound of the door knocker, waiting for the inevitable creak of old hinges as the door opened before he made his move.

The sound never came.

Sherlock continued to watch as Greg stepped back, hands on hips as he tipped his head back to look up at the upstairs windows. After a third attempt at eliciting an answer the older man shrugged, put his warrant card back in his inner jacket pocket and walked away.

Ahead of him he saw Sherlock slip away down another of the ever-present passageways leading between two properties to the back gardens. Without appearing to hurry Greg increased his pace, determined not to let the young man out of his sight, but he need not have worried – Sherlock was waiting in the deeper shadows just beyond the entrance to the passageway.

"Where are you running off to?" he ground out, catching his breath a little. His voice echoed hollowly.

"Nowhere Inspector." Sherlock sighed. "As you see, I'm standing still and waiting for you." He indicated the low garden fences between their current position and the back of Moriarty's house.

"You can either come with me, or you can wait here – I would suggest there is greater safety in numbers but I'd be lying."

Greg's mouth opened but no sound came out. Sherlock held up a hand.

"I'm saying that we may find John, we may find nothing…" He looked away. "Or we may just walk into your worst nightmare." And with those words he walked away.

xXx

Clenching his jaw to stop the incessant clattering of his teeth, John was struggling to think clearly. His entire being it seemed was engaged in a losing battle against the pervasive cold and damp of the dismal room, and the throbbing, relentless pain in his shoulder.

It had been too long, this rancid incarceration, and John feared for his friend, transformed, alone, and possibly unable to reach the safety of 221B, and his fears added to his frustration at being unable to do anything to help either Sherlock or himself.

As the house fell silent the injured man lost track of time, he had no idea how long he lay there listening to the nothingness. He was too far from the main road to hear the traffic, the back street on which the building was situated was not a popular through route, it seemed that luck – or good planning – were on Moriarty's side.

So when the stillness was shattered by the sound of the brass doorknocker, bursting sharply in a staccato rhythm, John jumped as if electrified, then held his breath, waiting.

Again the rat-a-tat of metal on metal, impatient and loud rang through the house.

John was certain that Moriarty would not have allowed the summons to go unanswered, that either his mother or his tame feline predator would be pressed into service, answering the door and fobbing off with banal chatter the unwary caller, so it was with a degree of surprise that he realised the hand on the on the knocker was trying a third time to elicit an answer.

With distressing slowness he tried to gather his wits.

"Hello?" He called out, but his voice was weak. "Can you hear me? Hello?"

Only the sound of his own voice echoed back at him, and he drew in several deep breaths.

"Hello!" He tried again. "Is anyone out there? I need help here!"

Still nothing, not even the sound of receding footsteps reached his ears. For all he knew, whoever had come to the door was still there, listening to him shouting, laughing silently at his predicament.

"Get a grip, Watson." John chided himself half under his breath. "Since when did you get so bloody paranoid."

"Since Moriarty beat you and chained you to a wall." Came a soft response, and John looked up into the troubled multi-hued gaze of his flatmate. Behind Sherlock stood Lestrade, staring down at him in horror.

"Sherlock?" Unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes John tried to reach out to the apparition standing beside him, yelping in pain as he stretched his injured shoulder.

The effect on the younger man was instantaneous. He dropped to his knees beside his friend.

"Let me see." His long fingers reached towards John's open shirt, hesitating as the doctor hissed and flinched.

"How…?"

"Broke in John – unimportant – let me see…"

"Sherlock for Christ's sake!" Greg shouted in a whisper, on the one hand afraid of startling John into hurting himself again yet on the other hand afraid of disturbing any lurking villains.

Sherlock's momentary hesitation was enough time for John to gather his befuddled wits, and he struggled to sit up straighter.

"Lock-picks?" he asked faintly, letting his gaze slide towards the manacle. With a nod of understanding the younger man moved around and made short work of opening the padlock before offering John a hand.

"No." Greg was adamant, moving swiftly to intercept. "You're not much better off than he is – let me."

John's head came up.

"What's happened?"

Sherlock glared but Greg ignored him, gently reaching down to help the doctor to his feet and moving him to lean almost drunkenly against the wall.

"Someone peppered him with air rifle pellets, and when we get back he's going to tell us both the whole story." Looking closely at the mess of John's shoulder he added "but by the look of this, you are both going to hospital first."

"But…"

"I don't…"

The flatmates both spoke at the same time, but Greg was already shaking his head.

"Don't even think about it John, you're in no fit state to treat his lordship. That shoulder needs professional treatment, and he needs those pellets removed sooner rather than later – I let him get away with just having them wrapped because he was keen to get you out of here…" The detective glanced around him. "Not that I blame him – I'd sooner we were out of here too, it feels…"

John nodded, understanding the feeling Greg couldn't put into words.

"Can you pass up the rest of my clothes?" he nodded towards his jumper and underwear still lying where Moran had thrown them, then glanced back at Sherlock. "And if you're sure the place is empty, then you might want to get your stuff from the front room – I'm sure you can't wait to get your trademark bloody coat back."

xXx

Satisfied that he had caused sufficient mischief for the time being Moriarty, although not actually happy to cut his losses, was prepared to withdraw and watch the pandemonium he was sure would be caused by a hysterical pathologist and her mad tales of tigers in London.

And never one to fully let loose a situation with potential, he added Kitty Reilly into the mix. Kitty was a second rate journalist, but a first rate ferret and was guaranteed to dig up (or stir up) enough dirt to make Sherlock's life difficult, if not downright miserable. So, in the knowledge that Kitty had been working hard on his behalf and was set to publish a damning story, Moriarty beat a strategic retreat in order to watch his enemy fall apart.

He didn't have to wait too long for his tame journalist to fire her first salvo. As John, Sherlock and Greg were making their weary way home from the crowded and over-worked Accident and Emergency department of University College Hospital the presses were rolling, and Sherlock Holmes was on the front page.

xXx

Both Sherlock and John were tired and decidedly tetchy after their prolonged visit to the hospital, and the atmosphere in Greg's car was silent and tense as he pulled up outside their black front door.

"Thanks Greg." John muttered as he struggled stiffly out from the back seat. "We'll be in touch when we're both feeling a bit more with it."

"Er..no." Greg also exited the car, looking at the two flatmates sternly. "I told Sherlock before we came out to get you, I want to know what's going on here, and I want the truth." He lowered his voice slightly. "Bad enough that Molly tells me there's a bloke wandering around London who can change into a tiger, Himself here runs from Camden to Baker Street naked and injured and you…" he left the sentence hanging, his eyebrows raised in obvious enquiry.

John's blue eyes flicked between Sherlock and Greg as he tried to gauge exactly what had been promised by whom. His flatmate shrugged, a sure sign that he had neither agreed to tell him nor refused to fill in the blanks in the officer's knowledge, and John knew he was being foolish but it was not just a matter of trust – until now he had always been considered to be the calm, sane, sensible one of this partnership, and while he was not ashamed of who and what he really is he was loath to lose Greg's good opinion of him in that respect.

"Look Greg, I know what I'm going to ask is maybe a bit much, but right now is not a good time…"

"Sorry John, I can't just let this slide." There was genuine regret in both his face and his voice. "It's just… there's too much, much too much going on – the dead birds, the killings, the oblique messages and now this."

Sherlock bristled, opening his mouth to say something scathing but John held up a restraining hand.

"I've got to ask you one last time Greg, let it go for the moment, please? I understand that you need to know what's going on but right now I don't think we can make enough sense of it for you to understand…"

"What are you saying?" Now the older man was bristling, but at what he imagined was John repeating Sherlock's oft-voiced derision of his abilities as a detective.

John sighed with frustration.

"I'm saying we're tired, we're hurt, and frankly I'd rather we were a bit more…" he shrugged "with it? Call it what you will, we'll just sound crazy if we try to explain it now. Can't you come back later? Get a few hour kip and come back this afternoon."

Greg scowled. Sherlock scowled right back at him.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Suddenly fed up with everything John pushed away from the car and moved to open the front door. "Go home Greg, get some sleep and we'll see you later. Come alone and I promise you'll be told everything you need to know, but if you insist on barging in now I can assure you you'll learn nothing."

"Oi!"

"Laters…" Sherlock turned to follow his flatmate, leaving the grey haired detective fuming as he closed the front door behind him.

xXx

Turning, Sherlock saw John standing at the foot of the stairs assessing him.

"What?"

"Moriarty didn't do that."

Storm hued eyes held blue for a fraction of a second longer than was strictly necessary before narrowing and flicking away towards Mrs Hudson's front door.

John nodded and turned, treading softly up the stairs to the flat. Opening the door he immediately spotted the bloodstained blanket that Mrs Hudson had wrapped around the younger man still lying where he dropped it, on the floor of his bedroom. He trudged slowly through to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

"You were uninjured when you changed." He said flatly as, one handed, he pulled mugs and tea bags out of various cupboards, picking up the now boiling kettle to pour the water in. "And no-one from Moriarty's band of merry grotesques was quick enough to follow and shoot you without doing so in full view of everyone in the street."

Still he didn't look at Sherlock, opening the fridge and grabbing milk to add to the mugs before dragging out the tea bags.

At last he turned, holding a mug out to his friend.

"Someone else tried to kill you." His voice sounded like failure, his face lined with strain. "Who has he got working with him?"

"No-one." Sherlock nodded his thanks as he grabbed the hot drink and took a scalding sip. "It was a child, just a stupid child with a gun…"

John stared, stunned. Sherlock gave a wry smile.

"I know, anyone would think this town had suddenly become a war zone."

"Jesus, I thought I'd left that behind in Afghanistan." With a shake of his head John picked up his own mug and wandered wearily into the living room, sinking with a sigh into the well-worn cushions of the couch. "However, that is the least of our worries."

"Moriarty?"

"Well, him too." John laughed mirthlessly. "More immediate is what we tell Greg."

"Why must we tell him anything?" Sherlock argued petulantly.

"Because he trusts us – unquestioningly. He watches our backs against the likes of Anderson and Donovan, and moreover…"

Sherlock waited, a questioning brow rising as the silence stretched.

"Moriarty." John said eventually. "He obviously knows enough about your life, about your friends…"

"Acquaintances."

"_Friends_, Sherlock. Anyway, he dragged Molly into this, who's to say he won't try to do the same to Lestrade or – God forbid – Mrs Hudson."

Denials faded on Sherlock's lips as he realised the truth of John's statement.

"He knows you're trying to break away from his influence, to reverse his curse, and he's not bloody happy, to put it bluntly!"

A glance at the clock made the doctor groan.

"It'll be dawn soon," he sighed. "And I for one could do with some sleep before we try to persuade Greg that we haven't entirely lost the plot."

Eying the shorter man closely Sherlock could see the strain, poorly hidden by his tired smile, etching its way across his face, dulling his eyes.

"Go to bed." He said decisively as John stifled a yawn. ""I'll just…"

"Oh no," John stood, drawing himself up to his full five feet six, imposing despite his lack of height and all due to the mantle of 'Captain Watson' that settled over him. "You need to rest. You've changed twice now without warning and tomorrow I want to try to get to the bottom of that, once we get Greg onside."

"What do you mean, 'onside'? What do you propose we tell him?"

"I think we need to tell him the truth." John moved closer, herding Sherlock towards his bedroom. "At least lay down in comfort – I'm sure you'll manage some sleep if you let yourself relax. When Greg gets here let me do the talking, at least that should persuade him this isn't the fantastical imaginings of a cocaine high."

Sherlock huffed a mirthless laugh as he stepped into his room, turning back in the doorway to say

"Don't be too sure – he'll probably think I've drugged you."

John watched as the door closed, then listened to the sounds of his flatmate moving quietly around, removing clothes.

Forcing his mind away from the pictures it was unhelpfully imagining he finally walked back along the hall and made his way slowly up to bed.

Telling Lestrade the truth wasn't the best idea he'd ever had, but he couldn't see any way forward without confessing everything and hoping that in the short time they had known each other he had made a sane impression on him.

With slow, tired movements he slowly pulled off his clothes, dropping them where he stood and reaching for his pyjama bottoms dragged them on and casting aside the t-shirt he normally wore he opted to sleep bare-chested in deference to his firmly bandaged shoulder.

Despite the residual pain he slipped fairly quickly into sleep, his dreams a replay of the day's events – in many ways less bothersome than his dreams of Afghanistan yet they plagued his unconscious mind with questions.

And just when John thought he could reach out and touch the answers a fist hammering at their front door catapulted him back to reality.

Groaning as every movement made his muscles scream in complaint he swung his legs over the side of the bed and gingerly sat up, ignoring the swimming sensation in his head and the bass thud of his heart. A swift glance at his phone told him it was just six thirty. From the room below he could hear Sherlock fumbling sleepily at his door handle.

By the time he had made it into his dressing gown and out to the top of the stairs Sherlock had let their visitor in.

Lestrade.

Christ, something must have happened to Molly.

He made his way downstairs as quickly as he dare.

"John." Greg stood in the middle of the living room. Beside him Sherlock was looking at the front page of the Daily Mail.

"What's happened?"

Sherlock turned the paper around so that John could read it.

"This." he said quietly.

There was a picture of Sherlock crossing the police tape at a crime scene, and emblazoned across the top in large black letters the words 'Meet the Psychopath Who Works at Scotland Yard – read Kitty Reilly's exclusive exposé.'

John met Greg's despairing look.

"Fuck!"


	15. Public Lies and Private Truths

**My friends, I apologise for keeping you waiting so long for this update - I'm afraid my muse went on a very long holiday...cheeky blighter! Anyway, he's back now, and here for your enjoyment is the next instalment of Unkindness...**

John took the paper from Sherlock's hand and stared down at the picture.

"Jesus! It's far too early for this!"

"Too early?" Greg spluttered. "This is my career on the line too..."

Blinking in astonishment John looked up into their friend's worried face.

"Yes, I realise that Greg, and I'm not making light of it." He drew in a deep breath and glanced round the room. "Look, let me just get dressed, Sherlock put the kettle on, and you, Greg, can just sit down."

Hurrying back up the stairs John heard various voices of complaint but ignored them in favour of putting on something a bit more substantial than just his pyjamas and dressing gown. By the time he returned to the living room Sherlock had made tea and was sitting reading the damning news article.

"It says here" the consulting detective said without looking up "that I 'dabble' in the occult, and that it's really me that's behind this latest spate of strange crimes."

"Wait 'til you read the spread across the middle pages." Greg put his drink down and gestured vaguely towards the tabloid. "That Kitty Reilly supposedly interviewed Anderson in his hospital bed, and it was him apparently who told her you were responsible for the damage to his eyes."

John frowned. "Supposedly?"

"I happen to know that Sally stayed with Anderson until he had been treated, and then she drove him across London to stay with his sister – she's a nurse – so at no time was Miss Reilly able to conduct an interview with him."

"Then..."

"At best she made it up, worst case scenario is that she chatted up the staff and got just enough truth to make the whole story believable!"

"A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing." John quoted softly.

"And I'm still waiting to learn the truth..." Greg looked pointedly at the flatmates. "I think now's as good a time as any."

John glanced at Sherlock, then back at Greg.

"Sherlock tells me you believed Molly's tale about the tiger..."

xXx

The silence that had settled over the three men stretched as Lestrade tried to understand the story he had been told, and even the sound of John leaving the room to make fresh tea and toast for the three of them failed to elicit a reaction for the police officer.

Sherlock stared at the older man, waiting for the explosion of accusations that never came.

"Greg?" John said quietly. "Here mate, you need to eat and you certainly look in need of another cuppa at the very least."

"A large whisky might be better." Lestrade replied faintly. John chuckled.

"Not before eight in the morning, you'll pickle your liver." The doctor wagged a finger at his flatmate as he opened his mouth to speak "Don't go there Sherlock – my sister's liver is quite possibly beyond saving at this point, and more to the point it has nothing to do with this conversation."

"Really...? I mean...? John?"

"Forget it Greg. You no doubt have questions?"

Greg blinked, his brows drawing down for a second.

"Let me see if I've got this right." He said eventually, absently picking at the crust of his toast. "Moriarty is some kind of wizard, Sherlock is under a spell, and you are another type of wizard and you're trying to help him."

Sherlock choked.

"In a nutshell, yes." John replied simply. "Although wizard is a bit 'Harry Potter' for Moriarty, and I'm an alchemist – a bit different."

"Don't split hairs John!" Greg snapped, and then his shoulders slumped. "Sorry."

"No mate, don't be. This all sounds a little far-fetched even to me, and I'm part of the story."

"You're being suspiciously quiet." The policeman glared at Sherlock.

"Well John was handling it all sufficiently well that I didn't feel the need to interrupt him..."

"And I told him to stay schtum." With a little grin John took his seat.

"So what next?"

"We need to set about refuting Kitty Reilly's claims, and get back to solving the problem of Moriarty." Sherlock said, pushing himself out of his chair and striding towards his bedroom.

Greg was out of his seat in an instant, grasping the younger man's arm.

"No." He said flatly. "You need to stay out of it until I can get the evidence to support your innocence and get our own press office onto it."

"But..." Sherlock protested.

"He's right Sherlock." John butted in before the conversation turned into a full scale argument. "Greg needs to be seen to do the right thing, and if that means temporarily denying you access to cases – in particular this case – then we just have to live with it."

The consulting detective looked aghast.

"There are other things we can do that don't require going to Scotland Yard."

"Such as?" The petulance in Sherlock's voice made John smile, and he quirked an eyebrow at his friend.

"We still have experiments to do, results to measure."

Eyes narrowing Sherlock nodded, and then pulled away from Lestrade.

"I'll get dressed."

Greg watched him go.

"What did I miss?"

"Ask yourself," John replied with a grin. "What was Sherlock doing at the hospital when he found Mike unconscious and Molly gone?"

The older man groaned.

"Do I really want to know?"

"Why don't you get back to doing what you need to do – I'll make sure that he doesn't do anything stupid."

"Or more stupid than normal."

"Something like that." With a grin John handed Greg his coat. "Text or ring if you need us, we'll be around." He paused, then added "Look after Molly – she shouldn't have been drawn into this, and watch your back. If Moriarty knows you're a friend of ours then I think it's only a matter of time before he targets you too."

"Well that's cheerful."

"Sorry."

"No, don't be. It's wise to be on the lookout for trouble, knowing it may come my way. And don't worry about Molly, I'll find her somewhere a bit safer than my place to stay until we have some kind of plan in place." Greg opened the door. "I'll see myself out. You two look after each other."

"Will do." John agreed.

xXx

Sherlock continued to sulk all the way to Barts, treating John to a view of the back of his head as he stared out of the cab window.

That John found this highly amusing, which was probably making matters worse, but he couldn't help it – he had learned in the short time since he moved into Baker Street that he was essentially dealing with a six foot tall, five year old genius.

Fully prepared for Sherlock to make a dash for it when the cab stopped John reached for his wallet but was shocked when his flatmate stopped him.

"I'll get this."

John frowned. Sherlock stared back.

"Why?"

With a roll of his eyes Sherlock sighed.

"Because it's three days until your army pension is paid into your bank account, so the only money you have at present is the cash in your wallet – you may need that later."

John was still gaping like a fish as Sherlock disappeared into the hospital.

xXx

The staff in the haematology lab were too busy to spare much thought to the fact that Sherlock was neither a member of staff nor a police officer as they handed over the three sets of blood results.

Whipping quickly out of the department he grabbed John's arm and steered him back out towards the front door.

"What now?" John was perplexed. Normally Sherlock would have commandeered the computer in Molly's office, but today he was seemed to be heading straight for the exit.

"Not safe." He muttered, glancing around quickly before ducking into a corridor that led down towards the basement area.

Sherlock looked twitchy as he stalked along the tiled floors, every now and then flicking a glance behind them and then picking up the pace a little more until John was almost forced to run to keep up.

Fortunately John's memory of the layout of the hospital was not as rusty as he had at first thought, as he recognised an ancillary boiler room that was the frequent haunt of trainee doctors and nurses (himself included he thought with a slight smirk), and catching hold of Sherlock's sleeve he pulled him in through the heavy door and down amongst the silent pipes and machinery.

"Why are we in here?"

John's eyes scanned the other man's face.

"Do you need to change? You look…" his voice trailed off as Sherlock glared at him.

"I'm not a child." Came the sneering response.

Unable to stop himself, John let his eyes rover over Sherlock from head to toe and back again.

"No, you're not."

"Then stop treating me like one."

"Feeling warm?" John looked closely at his friend now, stepping up next to him.

"John, we're in a boiler room…"

"That isn't in use – think Sherlock! What was it that you first used as a change indicator?"

"I'd feel uncomfortable and…" He blinked, stunned. "How did I miss that?"

"You're too concerned with the way things are going – Moriarty has changed the game, we've had to tell Greg about, well, you know." John shrugged, vaguely waving his hand between the two of them. "Heat is coming off you in waves mate. Now you're thinking about it I imagine you're unconsciously controlling it, but if your concentration slips? Will you change and let me lead you out?"

"There's a back way out?"

"Of course, just in case a quick escape from the lecturers is needed."

Without another word Sherlock passed the blood results to John, and then hastily started to take off his clothes.

Tucking the manila envelope under the back of his coat and into waistband of his jeans John looked around, and spotting a roll of black bin bags grabbed one and started to fold Sherlock's clothes into it. A second bag held the other man's Belstaff, and by the time the doctor had checked that he had all of the clothes bagged up his friend was sitting on a boiler pipe looking at him.

"Now, are you going to get all snotty and offended if I ask you to sit on my shoulder?" John tried hard to control his smile at the very obvious glare that the raven sent him before it gently glided across. The smile broke through however when he felt the bird's claws clutch a little tighter than was necessary to his uninjured shoulder as he started to make his way through to the fire exit.

xXx

Sally wasn't entirely surprised to receive a text from her boss asking her to come directly to his flat rather than take the clothes into the office. What actually shocked her was his reasoning, explained when she arrived.

"It turns out Sherlock – and now John – has picked up a stalker of sorts." The grey haired officer said as he handed his sergeant a cup of coffee. "Or maybe a bit more than a stalker… anyway, this Moriarty, having been unsuccessful at catching Sherlock's attention has turned nasty."

"Who in their right mind would want…" Sally's voice tailed off as Molly blushed a fiery red. "Sorry."

The Pathologist shook her head, rubbing her palms distractedly up and down her denim clad thighs.

"Look, whatever the personal feelings here, we need to be vigilant. I take it you've seen today's paper Sal…?" At the woman's curt nod he carried on. "I've been in to speak to our Press and PR team, they are already working on refuting a lot of the crap that Ms Reilly has been flinging around, they may be in touch with you for confirmation about the supposed interview with Anderson – anything they want to know about Sherlock and John's involvement in cases, just check out the facts before you send them, times and dates, that sort of thing. I've already given them some detail, stuff that I know for a fact Sherlock couldn't have done."

"What can I do?" Molly spoke up for the first time.

"You can stay safe." Greg replied without hesitation. "I promised John I'd look after you."

"But…"

"No buts Dr Hooper – John is worried that anyone who is a known friend..." he glanced at Sally's disbelieving face. "…or acquaintance of Sherlock's will be a target."

"What about you then Sir?" Sally asked.

"I plan to work away from the office. As far as the Chief Super is concerned I'm taking some long overdue leave for personal reasons," Lestrade met her dark eyes. "I've made arrangements for you to take over the running of the case, although I will expect you to report back to me."

"You'll be here?"

Greg shook his head. "I plan to move the pair of us to someplace not generally associated with either of us. I'll contact you when we're settled with contact details." He stood, and Sally stood too. "Let Molly's bosses know she's being looked after at a safe house until we know why she was targeted, the less anyone outside pf these four walls knows the better."

Sally nodded.

"Trust no one Sally. Field any odd or unusual questions or requests with a promise to look into them – let me know and I'll try to sort it." He met her questioning look. "As a last resort I can look to John for assistance, he's got a sensible head on his shoulders, no matter what Sherlock might say."

As she picked up her bag Sally clicked her fingers.

"I almost forgot!" she exclaimed. "We had a response from the police in Germany – according to their antiques expert those cards are possibly eighty to one hundred and twenty years old, originated in Bavaria and apart from the fairly distinctive patterns that point to a specific artist they couldn't tell us anything else – they could have been bought at an antiques auction almost anywhere."

Greg whistled through his teeth.

"Thanks Sally. Keep me informed if anything else comes up, and I'll let you know if I find anything."

With a nod of farewell the Detective Sergeant left, leaving Greg and Molly looking at each other worriedly.

xXx

Hiding a grin John looked up at the raven perched beside the chimney. Even from street level he could see the boredom in every line of the bird's body, and the way he flapped his wings and screeched was as clear as one of his impatient calls to 'keep up John' as a bird's body language could be. Letting himself in, he picked up the post from the doormat and scooted quickly up the stairs.

Not wishing to keep his friend waiting, John decided to forego putting the kettle on in favour of quickly clearing down their defences to let the raven in, depositing the bags of clothes on the bed as the bird swooped onto the headboard.

"You get changed," he smirked, thinking how much more that actually meant these days. "I'll make tea and some lunch, and then we can look at those blood results."

John didn't wait for an answer, heading straight to the kitchen to brew up and making a couple of sandwiches.

"Did you put these here?"

Sherlock's voice floated in from the living room, and John looked over his shoulder to see his friend standing holding the letters he had picked up on the way in.

"Hmm." He agreed, turning back to the task in hand.

"Even this hand delivered one?"

There was something strange in Sherlock's voice – a mixture of excitement at possibly being handed the next piece of the puzzle and apprehension at what lay ahead.

"Assume so." John carried in the tea and sandwiches and put them down on the coffee table. "I had my hands rather full at the time so I didn't look at them that closely."

He watched as Sherlock carefully felt around the edges of the envelope, then placed it on the table and gently ran his hand over it, feeling the outline of the contents.

"Not booby trapped." The younger man flipped it over and repeated his action, feeling for anything unusual. "And whatever is in there has something stapled to it; I can feel the folded metal prongs."

A quick glance up at the doctor showed that he was happy that Sherlock had done as thorough a check of the envelope as possible in the circumstances, and so he proceeded to carefully peel it open.

There was no fizzing of chemicals, no crack of explosives. At arms length he tipped the contents out onto his desk, breathing a slight sigh of relief when it proved to be just a piece of paper – relief that was short lived when he turned it over to see that the paper was actually a picture of John Watson, taken outside the door of 221b Baker Street, and over the top of the photograph was stapled a card.

A tarot card.

Placed upright over the photograph was The Tower. Sherlock passed it to John, a question in his eyes.

John stared at it for a moment, and then explained "From the Major Ancarna, the Tower represents unexpected events and loss of stability – catastrophic and irreversible change on almost every conceivable level." He shrugged, hoping that he sounded calmer than he felt. "Moriarty has made his next move, and told us who his next target will be – me."


	16. Bloods and Boredom

Distress was written all over Sherlock's face as he took in John's words.

"Now stop right there." John said sternly. "We've always know he would target me – he already has. Only this time he's given us advanced warning."

"Stupid."

"Or maybe cunning, Sherlock."

Grey-blue eyes narrowed. "To throw us into confusion, and when nothing happens, lull us into a false sense of security."

"Not so stupid after all."

"You or him?"

John grinned and placed the paper back into the envelope. "Git."

"So what now?" Sherlock asked, picking up his mug of tea.

"Now we eat – and yes, Sherlock, I mean _we_ eat – then we can look at these blood results. There has to be something in there to give us a clue."

"Or nothing, thus ruling it out." The younger man sneered at the plate of sandwiches his flatmate was holding under his nose, but conceded that if he didn't take one it would just stay there until he did. And John just continued to grin…

Several hours later, when they had pored over the blood results from every conceivable angle Sherlock stomped off in a huff.

John let him go and picked up the reports once more, starting again at the beginning. He was convinced he was missing something.

xXx

Slipping her arm through Lestrade's, Molly tried to look as if they were just another couple going away for a short break as their small overnight bags were quickly slung into the back of the Scotland Yard pool car that Greg had checked out earlier in the day, realising that his own vehicle would be like a homing beacon if Moriarty chose to target him as John had suggested.

Driving sedately away from Battersea Greg headed across the Thames, then west towards the M4. They made the journey in relative silence until they were on the motorway, where there was a distinct relaxing of the police officer's shoulders, and he looked across at his passenger with a smile.

"Somehow feels safer out of London." He said with a shrug and a sheepish grin. "What Sherlock and John told me about what's going on; well I have to say it gave me the willies!"

"Greg!" Molly stifled a giggle and covered her blushing cheeks with her hands.

"Sorry."

She tapped his arm lightly.

"Really – I'm just kidding." The smile still on her face she turned to look at the passing scenery. "Where are we heading? You were very cagy about it this morning."

Greg hummed uncertainly. "I wasn't sure at first, but the more I thought about it the better it sounds." He overtook a slow moving lorry and flicked a glance at her. "My stepmum has a place just outside Betws-y-Coed, close enough to walk into the village but secluded enough to keep us safe."

Sliding another glance her way he saw that shock had widened her eyes and left her open-mouthed.

"Er… Molly? You okay?"

"Wales? We're going to Wales?" her voice was faint.

"Is that a problem?"

"Er… no, no problem. I just imagined we'd be going to some sort of safe house just outside London, not hike halfway across the country." She waited until he glanced her way again then grinned wickedly at him. "I didn't bring my walking boots!"

With a huff f laughter Greg assured her that would be no problem, Betws-y-Coed was used to hikers and consequently there were several shops where they could purchase the necessary kit. Conversation turned to favourite brands of outdoor clothing as the car ate up the miles to Wales, neither party giving much thought to what was happening back in London.

xXx

By late afternoon Sherlock had become bored with sulking and wandered back into the living room. John was no longer there, but an odd snuffling noise drew his attention to the kitchen.

The doctor was slumped over the kitchen table, papers and books spread around him, and a thin trickle of drool dampening the sleeve of his jumper. Sherlock's first instinct was to poke John until he woke up, then he remembered that his friend had had little sleep the night before, and had then put up with his sulking while striving still to find answers.

Quietly he crossed the kitchen and pulled open a draw, removing a handful of takeaway menus and trying to decide which John would prefer. He was so engrossed in the glossy leaflets that he failed to notice the change in John's breathing pattern until

"No takeaways, Sherlock."

The younger man jumped slightly and turned to raise a quizzical eyebrow.

"Too easy for Moriarty to find out which takeaways we prefer to use, and I'm not happy with finding a new one because we won't know if any ill effects we might feel are because their hygiene standards are shit or if we've been deliberately poisoned."

Sherlock blinked, then chuckled softly.

"When did you become so clever?"

"Ha ha! When I became a doctor, smart arse! Just because I don't have your gift for deduction and incredible leaps of evidence connection, I have treated enough food poisoning and other types of poisoning to know we are likely to end up in hospital and at the mercy of either Moriarty or your brother." John stretched his arms forward to loosen his shoulders, and rolled his head from side to side. "However you can put the kettle on, we could both do with some tea while we think about what we do next.

Still grinning about John's dig at Mycroft, Sherlock did as he was told then looked closer at the books his friend had been studying.

They were a strange mixture of medical tomes and Master Gabrail's notebook, with John's own old notebooks and a page or two of fresh notes added in. On top of it all sat the blood results.

"I thought these were a dead end." He said, flicking the corner of the lab report with one slender finger.

"I'm not so sure." John moved to stand next to him. "There's something nagging at the back of my brain, but I don't know if the answer's medical or… well, you know…"

"Magical?" Sherlock added light-heartedly.

"Yeah, something like that Professor Dumbledore."

"Pop culture?"

"Harry Potter."

"Oh."

They had both turned their heads to look at each other, and suddenly the world narrowed down to just a small space within a small kitchen. Almost nose to nose they stared at each other, barely breathing. Sherlock watched as John let his eyes move, taking in grey-blue eyes before moving on to razor sharp cheekbones, down to cupids bow lips, and the consulting detective's breath hitched as he noticed that the very tip of John's pink tongue peeking shyly from between his lips, as if daring to come out and taste…

With a start Sherlock stepped back, breaking the spell. What on earth was he thinking? John was his friend he reminded himself, his only friend and one who was risking much to help him.

"I…um…er…I…"John stammered, blushing red to the tips of his ears. He clenched his fists in an effort to get himself back under control, realising as he did that it said much about Sherlock's equally confused state of mind that he hadn't ripped into him for being less than articulate. "Sorry, sorry… what I'm trying to say is I've been making notes, some of what has happened since I met you, some centred on things that you have told me…" he flicked at the edge of the blood results. "…and there's something here that I'm not seeing."

"You want me to…?"

"Please." John stepped away from the table as the kettle started to whistle noisily. Head down he hurried round to start making tea, watching out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock sat down and started to read through the notes he had made.

xXx

A week on, and the only people not frustrated by the lack of results were Molly and Greg.

Life in the foothills of Snowdonia suited the couple, as Molly discovered the joys of the wild, Welsh countryside while the Detective Inspector was discovering that he could still feel that spark and pull associated with being with someone he was beginning to care for.

A bright laugh drew him from his musings.

"Greg I don't believe you listened to a word I said!" Molly chuckled as she dragged him towards the little tea shack just off the woodland footpath. "Cake – now!"

"You know – for such a skinny little thing you eat an awful lot of cake."

Molly's eyes widened in disbelief.

"You've been route marching me up and down various parts of this mountain, what do you expect?" she asked with an incredulous laugh as they grabbed seats outside and looked at the menu chalked up on the board beside the door. "I think I'll have a slice of the Black Forest Gateau."

"I thought you liked walking." Greg said, standing to go and order their food.

"I do, but I also like to reward myself with nice high-energy sweet stuff afterwards."

"And during, and before…" The grinning man threw over his shoulder as he ducked into the café.

While they waited for their order to be delivered Greg tried to surreptitiously check his phone for texts.

"Not here Greg," Molly said, her eyes taking in the surrounding area. "No mobile signal, remember? You'll have to use the landline back at your mum's place."

Greg smiled ruefully.

"I'll use the public phone box in the village."

"Public phone box? I didn't see one…"

"Nah, it's in the Forester's Arms. At least the number's not traceable back to me. I'll ring Sally and see if there's been any new developments." He frowned into his coffee. "Do you mind if…um…if we don't talk shop just yet?"

With a smile Molly shook her head.

"Would it do any good to say you started it?" she asked ironically.

xXx

He was sulking. There was no other word for it.

He had spent the last three days trying to infiltrate the mind of Sherlock Holmes and was still hitting the same brick wall that seemed to have sprung up around the dratted man since just after John Watson appeared on the scene.

And he couldn't get any insights into Watson. Nothing he did seemed to reach this ordinary little nobody; not even when he used the blood he'd harvested during their little torture session in Camden.

"What are you staring at?"

The tiger just blinked and twitched the end of his tail. This wasn't the first time today that Moriarty had turned his temper on to his pet cat, and despite his sycophantic tendencies he knew well when to stay quiet and let the storm blow over. Today though, it seemed the storm was gaining in strength.

"Well if you can't do something constructive as you are then get yourself up on two feet, I have some errands for you to run."

The Magister turned towards the fire and stared harder into the flames.

"I want that ridiculous little doctor out of the way!"

xXx

A week without cases was sorely trying the tempers of the inhabitants of 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock was bored, there hadn't been a single case for him to work since Lestrade left London, and Donovan was being singularly unhelpful.

Much to his disgust John had been less than helpful too. His only contribution to the easing of Sherlock's frantic mind was to ask for another blood sample, only this time he wanted to take it from the raven rather than the man.

Sulkily Sherlock had agreed, and then he had flown the skies of London following John to the hospital to drop the sample in to the lab before heading out to stretch his wings over the city.

John on the other hand was like a bloodhound after a scent. The doctor was convinced that he was missing something, and had kept aside half of the sample to do some tests of his own, but even the opportunity of trying his hand at alchemy didn't soothe Sherlock's fizzing brain.

He wanted to do something – anything – to relieve the aching boredom and the fear that was nagging at him, fear that this was never going to stop, and part of him was beginning to wish he had never told John about the curse, never let himself be persuaded to fight back. It never occurred to him that he was being unfair to his friend – after all, John had not taken it upon himself to interfere, he had offered help and Sherlock had willingly, eagerly, accepted.

Watching as his flatmate calmly washed the flasks for maybe the fifth time in as many hours, Sherlock could feel an irrational anger building within him.

"Anything?" he snapped.

John looked over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised at the tone of voice.

"Well? You've been fiddling about with your witches brews and hocus pocus for hours now. Has there been any point to it?"

Reaching for his patience John rinsed the flasks and stood them to drain, then with slow deliberation dried his hands before turning around.

"Alchemy is less of a precise science than the chemistry you practice Sherlock, and I will have to study the results that I have achieved before we can even start to consider the usefulness of any of my work." He shook his head. "I understand…"

"No John! No you don't understand at all! You have no idea…"

"Oh I think I do Sherlock." John's worn patience finally snapped. "I've had to live with your sulking, with your demands, and your impatience. I have tried – God knows how I've tried – to keep you from getting bored and at the same time find an answer not only to your curse but to how we can get rid of Moriarty, but nothing I do seems to satisfy you. If you can't be helpful be quiet, and if you can't be quiet then I suggest you find somewhere else to be!"

Sherlock gaped. John had never before stripped his character down to the bare bones to reveal the selfishness that lay beneath the intellectual exterior, and he didn't like it. Unfortunately for John Sherlock was never particularly good at unbiased self-reflection, and so it was no surprise to the doctor to hear the younger man's bedroom door slam shut and the subsequent cold draught blow through as Sherlock opened his window in preparation of taking flight.

At least this way he was out of John's hair. And John was grateful for the peace and quiet, the time alone to read his notes and make comparisons between his results and those of the original blood tests.

xXx

Ever watchful, Sherlock noted the moment some hours later that John left to collect the most recent blood results from Barts. He sat among the rooftops of London watching his friend's progress, not realising that the watcher was, in turn, being watched.

From a seat in a coffee shop opposite Baker Street underground Sebastian Moran watched. With a grim smile he saw the raven land on the roof across the road from the station, then moments later spotted the blond head of the doctor walking through the sparse pedestrian traffic and disappear down the stairs and into the hot humid atmosphere of the underground transport system. A rapid text alerted Kitty Reilly to the approach of her 'target' – and Moran hoped she was better at following people than she was about spreading doubt about their integrity. Mr Moriarty was still smarting at the speed with which Scotland Yard had proved all of her stories to be lies.

Noting that the raven had taken off once more and was heading south towards the City, the man-tiger swallowed the dregs of his coffee and strolled without haste from the building and walked towards the Baker Street flat.

John would have been proud of his protective measures had he been at the flat when Moran tried to break in.

His initial attempt to simply pick the lock on the front door was thwarted by the choking, crushing effect of the mixture spread across the threshold.

Moran's second attempt was even worse, as John, realising that the back of the house was significantly more vulnerable than the front had not only painted the door frame and around the glass in the door, but he had also liberally swabbed the door handles and the latch and bolt of the back gate. No sooner had he reached out and grasped the metal than his palm started to burn, and his chest squeezed as if in a vice. With a loud curse he threw himself back, clasping his injured hand to his chest as he turned to run from the back alleyway.

Hurrying into Regent's Park he found himself in a quiet secluded corner, behind a tea shop that was currently closed for out-of-season refurbishment, and from his pocket he pulled the small incendiary device he had been tasked with planting in the flat. He had no intention of returning to his master a failure, and so he set about readjusting his plans. If he wasn't able to plant the bomb himself, then he would have to change the timer for an impact mechanism. From a distance, throwing the bomb through the window would have just as devastating effect.

xXx

Whistling softly through his teeth, John ran up the stairs two at a time. A cursory glance at the results had shown there was a significant difference in the way the blood had reacted, and he was keen to get all of his information together.

Not bothering to stop even for a cup of tea, John grabbed the old leather satchel that held all his notes both old and new and slipped the latest results inside. It was a lesson that he had learned well while studying with the Master, to always keep your things together so that you can move swiftly if needed.

Now he planned to retire to his room for some serious study, and he had just stooped to pick up the canvas bag holding the rest of his equipment when the sound of the living room window smashing brought his head snapping up, and the following explosion knocked him off his feet.

Not stopping to consider the wisdom of his actions John pulled himself back up, grabbed the bags and ran through to Sherlock's room. Grabbing his friend's scattered and discarded clothing he shoved what he could into his bag and climbed out of the window, edging his way precariously along the rooftops until he was tucked safely in the shadow of a chimney several houses away.

At the front of the house Moran smirked.

If only he had known his victim had escaped.

**A/N: Why the raven flies off towards the 'City'... Yes, London is a city, but what most people think of 'London' (including Baker Street, New Scotland Yard and Buckingham Palace) is just a huge town made up of lots of 'Boroughs'. The 'City of London' is a square mile that encompasses most of the banking area, the Inns of Court, Old Bailey and, of course, Barts hospital.**


End file.
